


Dirty Hands, Dirty Feet

by egregiousSynonyms



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst, Anxiety, Art School, College, Drinking, F/F, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Like, M/M, Nintendo metaphors, alco, but they're of age so whatever, complicated strilonde family structure, dave and kanaya are so pale, dave...mary?, figure modeling, get a room, just cause you're queer doesn't make you less of a WASP, rosemary, strilondes in a nutshell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-02-18 04:37:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2335610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/egregiousSynonyms/pseuds/egregiousSynonyms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Kanaya draws Rose like one of her French girls, the author abuses that joke like a dead horse, Dave and Kanaya are best pals, Karkat is the most bitter MFA in the history of studio art, and Gamzee Makara is a generally detestable creature.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shitty Still Lives

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, I miss college. Have some fanfiction.

You are diligently taping the four corners of your newsprint to a thin sheet of fiberboard when Dave Strider drags a horse beside you and straddles it.

“So, Maryam, what’s on the agenda for today? More shitty still lives? ‘Cause if I have to draw one more bowl of goddamn fruit, I’m gonna paint this place in all the colors of my rainbow puke.”

You spare him a single glance before returning to your task.

“If you ever bothered to read the syllabus or listen to our instructor at the end of class, Mr. Strider, you would know that we have a model today.”

“Really? Oh hell yes, model days are the best. You just get to kick back, draw some naked chicks, watch everyone freak out and get nosebleeds ‘cause they’re drawing some naked chicks.”

“How do you know that this naked person will indeed be a ‘chick’? We could just as easily have a male model.”

Dave gazes at you over his shades, “Call it ESPN. Or, better yet, call it an obvious fucking fact. In your billion art classes here, when have you ever had a dude as a model?”

You wordlessly retrieve a sketchbook from your backpack and begin shuffling through it. Dave opens his mouth to speak, but you interrupt him with an index finger in the air. He waits with his arms crossed until you present him with a drawing from your beginning anatomy class the previous semester. His eyes widen behind his shades at the wrinkled visage of a very old, very naked man stretched out in the warrior pose.

“Does he—“

“Yes. He spent the entire session with varying levels of erection. Then he went around peering at all of the girls’ sketches during his breaks and admonishing them if they did not accurately portray his genitals. It was an awful week.”

Dave hands your sketchbook back, upper lip curled in disgust. You return it to your backpack.

“There goes my art, Kanaya, I hope you’re happy. There’s gonna be some blonde bimbo coed up on that rickety-ass podium begging me to draw her like one of my French girls and I gotta be all ‘sorry, girl, I just can’t get the thought of withered, half-mast dong outta my head, all I see when I look at your face is a big ol’ wrinkle chub’ and then she’s gonna cry. And I’m just gonna point to you ‘cause you’re the one who gets their sick kicks from ruining days and making ladies cry—“

You cut him off with a light smack to the head with a few sheets of loosely-rolled newsprint that you had torn from your pad.

“What the hell’s this for?”

“For the gestures that we will be drawing of your purported blonde coed. You used all of your newsprint the first week of the semester on that ridiculous pet project of yours—“

“My Sunday comics parodies were inspired and it is hella obvious that you—“

“And I would prefer to avoid the inevitable confrontation with our instructor over your lack of preparedness that would absorb upwards of twenty minutes of class time. It is model day, after all.”

You roll your eyes and begin prepping your newsprint with charcoal when Dave opens his mouth to deliver what is sure to a be a rousing diatribe of nonsense concerning the “inspired comic parodies” he had hung over every inch of bulletin board in the art building this January. After a few moments of silence, you look up to see Dave staring at the door, lips parted and brows furrowed. You follow his gaze to a young woman with light, shoulder-length blonde hair dressed in floral-print Bermuda shorts and a white peasant blouse. She places her messenger bag on a chair in the corner and scans the room.

“That must be our model. It appears that your premonition was correct.”

Dave appears close to vomiting. You offer him your water bottle, but he waves it away and forces his face back into an expression of indifference just in time to greet the mysterious girl approaching them.

“Rose, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Hello, Dave, what a pleasant surprise to run into you. I am doing quite well this afternoon, thank you for asking. Is your instructor around?”

“Why?”

“I would like to know if I should be changed promptly when class begins or if he has some sort of short lecture planned.”

You quickly interject, “I do not believe he has arrived yet. He has a tendency to be late on Thursdays.”

The young woman – Rose – turns and flashes you a thankful smile.

“There is no way in hell that you are the model.”

“Is this Advanced Drawing, room 307, 12:20-3:10?”

“God dammit. Since when do you take your clothes off for strangers? Does your mother know that you came to college to be a stripper?”

“I admit that I had hoped that it would shock her at least a little, but alas, Mother is practicing her over-supportiveness to a tee. I’d hazard to say that she’s even a little jealous. She also asked that I pass along a stirring rebuke about your dilatory filial attitude concerning the timely return of phone calls.”

“Dude, no, she’s either calling me at the asscrack of dawn to tell me to eat a bowl of Lucky Charms ‘cause she doesn’t want me to end up on the cast of _Rent_ with malnourishment-induced AIDS, or she’s rambling about the empty house at 2 am ‘cause Bro’s gone on one of his mysterious trips and left the wine cellar unlocked.” Dave pauses. “Like Lucky Charms isn’t the shittiest cereal. Like soaking those little pencil top erasers and some wood shavings in milk and calling it food was the best thing since sliced bread. Now, Trix, that’s a legit meal; that rabbit knew what was five-star and what was basic shit.”

You cannot help yourself but blurt out to Dave, “Your family has a wine cellar?” That was, of course, not the foremost question on your mind concerning the conversation unfolding before you, but it was a concern nonetheless. You know that your knowledge about Dave is mostly limited to his present, and you find yourself once again disgustingly curious about this sphere to which you are not privy.

Before either could answer, the door slams open and in bustles a short man with Einstein-esque wiry black hair, too much stuff in his arms, and a scowl glued to his face. As soon as he manages to dump his burden in the prop closet/ office, he bellows, “Why the hell isn’t everyone set up already? You get to draw something alive for once because the art department, in all their infinite wisdom, managed to get off their Matisse-print-grubbing asses and hire me a model. Speaking of where’s the model because I swear to all the fucking gods in the sky if she doesn’t show up today…” He scans the room until his eyes fix on Rose. She offers him a small wave and stands up to meet him.

“I see you’re in good spirits today, Karkat.”

“Shut up and go get changed, Lalonde. You can go ahead and take your sweet fucking time, though, ‘cause it looks like these undergrad assholes are too busy flirting and fondling themselves to value their education.” Karkat looks around the room, scowl deepening with each student scrambling to ready their newsprint or sharpening their pencils. He alights on you and your spine straightens involuntarily.

“Congratulations, Kanaya, you are once again the only human being in the vicinity expressing even the faintest modicum of competence.” He spares a glance at Dave, and his eyebrows raise in surprise at his relative preparedness. “And it looks like you managed to rub off a little on Strider. So ‘A’ fucking plus to you.”

You smile at the praise and are about to verbally express your thanks when Dave capitalizes on the silence, “Hey now, I’m an artist, and I sure as shit can’t be bothered with all this type A organizational bullshit. You think da Vinci would’a been assed to color code all his inventions and file ‘em all away in the right cabinet? Also, I need to be excused from class this week, I think I’m dying of sickness.” He coughs lightly into his hand. “Consumption. You know how it is.”

“You look fine to me. And take off your sunglasses so you can see contrast like a normal person.”

“My religion keeps me from drawing living things?” Dave, of course, makes no move to remove his shades.

“What about all those crow drawings you turned in last week?”

“Those were taxidermied, and don’t you insult the memories of Huggy, Muggy, and Odie by implying that I would steal their presh living souls in a blasphemous drawing.”

“Please tell me you don’t still keep those disgusting crow carcasses in your room,” Rose says, reappearing clothed in a long-sleeved, heather grey robe that covers only a few inches of thigh. You manage not to stare. There will be plenty of that soon enough.

Karkat looks near screaming, but nearly an entire semester dealing with Strider’s provocations has given him the mettle to keep it together. “Unless you can come up with a valid excuse, you will turn in your best three gestures and best long drawing at the end of class on Tuesday just like everyone else, you freaking thorn in my ass.” With that, Karkat walks off to see to the rest of the class.

Rose perks up like she has just been given a gift. “Dear brother, are you uncomfortable with the prospect of drawing me in the buff? You know that modeling—“

“If you say one word about Freud or Westerfuck or whatever psycho-bullshit is running through your head right now, I will link Mom to every shitty forum and archive that you’ve posted your weirdo fanfics on.”

“Mother loves my ‘weirdo fanfics.’ She is always the first to kudos and comment.”

Dave simply glares at his sister, and you are surprised at the range of facial expressions on display today. Dave’s face is usually as deadpan as his voice, but it seems that not even he is immune to the universal torment of a sibling. In your budding friendship, you had found that he was fairly tightlipped on the subject of his family, and over a year later, you are still unsure of the particulars. You were aware that Rose existed, though you were unaware that she attended this university. There was also another brother that may or may not function as a guardian. You had an inkling of a second sister? You table these musings for a later date; perhaps you could get Dave drunk this weekend and pry. It’s not as if it would be much different than your average weekend.

Karkat yells something about gestures and getting one’s shit the fuck together, and suddenly Rose is robeless and climbing onto the sheet-covered platform in the center of the room. She slides into a textbook contrapposto position, and you set to work. You frown at your awkward proportions, and Karkat calls time.

Rose twists and bends her torso into what you recognize as the pose of the Discus Thrower. You mark the lines of her shoulders and pelvis and think you do a fairly good job making the whole thing not one giant blob of charcoal. Karkat calls time. As you wonder if Rose typically appropriates all of her poses from the Classical sculpture section of Art History 101, she fully extends her right leg and stretches to grab the toes while keeping her weight and balance on the ball of her crouched left foot. You’re impressed with her flexibility in a purely aesthetic capacity.

Karkat wanders around the room giving suggestions of various levels of applicability. Most consist of admonishments that this was an advanced drawing class, and as such everyone’s gestures should look like a person and not like a kindergartener’s bullshit house. Karkat stops behind you and Dave and stands in silence except to call time for the last few gestures. You are disquieted by his breathing, and you glance behind you to find Karkat staring at Dave’s newsprint in what is either open-mouthed disbelief or fury. You would hedge on a combination when you actually look at the drawings in question.

“All right, that’s ten. Rose, take a break. Everyone else, go walk around for a minute and try to remember that human beings have standardized proportions and are not the graphite abominations that you’re trying to pass off as figures.”

Everyone stands and proceeds to mill about. Rose, once again robed, pads over while stretching her shoulders. Dave scrawls a few lines of dialogue onto his newsprint.

“Strider.” Karkat’s voice is surprisingly calm. You feel yourself hunch instinctively. “What the fuck am I looking at?”

Rose peers at the drawings. “Is that Sweet Bro?”

“What the fuck’s a ‘Sweet Bro’?”

“It’s from a comic,” you supply helpfully.

Karkat turns to Rose, turns to Dave’s drawings, and finally pans to you. You watch his Herculean effort to choke down what would surely be an explosive and decidedly unprofessional tirade, and you wonder how one would spot the early signs of an aneurism. Karkat expels a deep breath and says in a disturbingly even voice, “Dave, it’s the end of the semester. My boss is coming by next week to evaluate everyone’s work with the model. Do me a solid. Just draw the damn figure like I know you can.”

Dave frowns, clearly disturbed by the reasonability of the request and the dejectedness of its delivery. He looks at his newsprint which contains several figures all sporting Sweet Bro or Hella Jeff heads atop Rose’s torso. He looks back to Karkat and shrugs minutely. “Yeah, okay.”

Karkat nods stiffly and stalks off to his office. You hope to scream into something soft and muffling. It cannot be healthy to withhold that much rage.

The rest of the period is divided into two longer poses and goes fairly smoothly. The first is a dramatically-lit seating pose that features Rose cross-legged and torqued so that her elbows rest on the back of a wicker chair and her head rests on them. You think that you manage to bang out something acceptable, and you must admit that you are highly motivated by Rose’s occasional peeks at your work during her breaks.

Dave manages to take Karkat’s request to heart, going so far as to push his glasses onto his head during each timed session. His drawings are lovely, as usual, and you envy the liquid ease with which he wields his charcoal. At the end of the pose, Karkat wanders tentatively over to check your progress. When he sees Dave’s drawing, he visibly sighs in relief and mumbles a “Thank Christ” before offering a demand to squint at the shadows more.

Karkat gives you some quick corrections on your proportions, and then heads off to set up the podium for the final pose. The class watches bemusedly as Karkat huffs and puffs while hauling up several wooden boxes, covering them with pillows and drapery, and painstakingly arranging every detail. You would offer to help, but you know better than to come between your instructor and his perfectionism.

Dave returns from a walk with two cups of coffee and hands you one. You sip at the bitter swill that the art school passes off as gourmet.

Dave voices his concern, “One of these days, I’m gonna storm that shop and expose them for the cheap bastards they are. This is Folgers. This is what my tuition is bankrolling. Dixie cups of nuclear-hot Folgers. What about my refined palette? What about my delicate little artist taste buds all screaming as they die a lava death like some Greeks dumb enough to live under a volcano?” This was Dave and your little ritual every class period: banter, one of you grabs coffee for both of you, complain about trivialities. You are glad to see that he is not too out of sorts to participate.

“I’ll ready the trebuchet and flaming rocks.”

“Damn straight you will.”

“Perhaps the ROTC would be gracious enough to lend us a tank and munitions.”

“That’s the kind of thinking I like to hear, sailor. I have half a mind to promote you to whatever’s a rank higher than cabin dyke.”

“Pray think on it, sir, I daren’t imagine what such preferential treatment will do to my already unmitigated ego. Besides, what will the other officers do at the ghastly sight of a woman in their ranks?” You pause and break into a grin and giggles. “I’m sorry, Dave, I can’t keep up with this one. Cabin dyke? Seriously?”

Dave wears his own smirk and raises his hand in a salute. “I will have you know that I come from a long line of famous cabin dykes. It’s a super-well-respected military rank, very important.”

You snicker into your hand and glance over to see that Rose has been watching the two of you with ill-concealed interest. Aside from quick glances, she had not come over to the two of you since the end of her gestures, and you think it is either because she finds you boring or because she has chosen to take pity on Dave.

Karkat crawls off of the makeshift bed constructed on the podium and surveys it from each side. “All right, Rose. Get up there and do something interesting. It’s not the most stable thing in the world, so don’t move around too much which shouldn’t be a problem because, oh wow, it’s your goddamn job to sit still.”

“I laud your stellar concern for my safety.” Rose frowns at the structure, strips off her robe, and tentatively ascends. You watch the upper box sway slightly as she shifts, and you bite your lip in concern. She manages to steady herself and works her way into a reclining position with one knee bent and the other leg straight. She places one hand on her hip, elbow akimbo and the other arm draped over her head. She turns her head and settles her gaze to what is probably two inches above your head but feels more like she’s staring right into your soul.

“Comfortable? Think you can hold that for the hour we have left, princess?” Karkat adjusts a few lights with a grimace.

“If I fall off this thing, I am suing the MFA program.”

“How does everyone feel about ditching the lamps and just using natural light?” Before anyone can answer, he switches off all of the lamps. “No objections? Wonderful. ‘Cause I’m the god of this class and you are all my little order-following peons and we’re using natural fucking light today ‘cause it looks nice.” He opens the blinds on all of the windows and nods at the change. You are glad for Rose’s sake that you are on the third floor.

You have to admit that the sunlight is lovely filtering in through the studio windows, grimy though they may be. You also have to admit that Rose is lovely bathed in said sunlight filtering in through said grimy windows. Every time you glance up to take measurements with your charcoal, you find your eyes wandering to the contours of nude flesh spread out before you and forget what you were measuring in the first place. It does not help that Rose keeps catching your eye every time you glance anywhere near her face.

You gulp down a mouthful of saliva and what you hope is your unprofessionalism and force yourself to work. By the end of the class, you have what you think is a suitable enough piece to turn in for critique, though you also think that it would look infinitely better in chalk or colored pencil where you could really capture the golden glow of sunlight as it caresses the soft curves of her lounging form like she’s Cleopatra drifting down the Nile after a particularly gratifying tryst with one of her purported lovers. A lover that is definitely a woman and not Marc Antony. This metaphor is running away from you; Dave would be proud. Or perhaps disquieted by the fact that you’re inserting his sister into your daydreams of the Classical Mediterranean World. You decide to keep your musings to yourself.

Karkat calls the final time, you make a few hurried excuses for shading beneath your figure’s eyes and cheekbones, and Dave sighs in barely-restrained relief. You glance at Rose to see her perched precariously atop her pedestal shaking out a hand that you figure has fallen asleep. She peers nervously at the ground, swaying slightly on the haphazard scaffold.

Visions of Rose’s imminent death by falling dancing through your head, you leap up and offer your hand. She regards both you and your hand suspiciously until you smile and say, “This thing looks moments from collapse, would you like some help?” Her features soften, and she places her hand in yours.

“It’s hardly a successful modeling session if I don’t wind up unconscious on the floor, but perhaps we can forgo the formalities just this once.”

With your support, she manages to find safe footing on solid earth. Her fingers leave yours with what your over-active romantic imagination construes as a spark and a decidedly incongruous rustle of silks. You watch her grab her robe and begin to don it until you realize that you are being an awful creep just standing there.

Dave is packed up and waiting impatiently by the time you return to your horse.

“Kanaya, Jesus Christ, stop ogling my sister and get your shit together. I have class in an hour, and you are wasting my precious fucking-around time.”

“I’m touched that you so highly value my presence that you’d squander even a priceless second on my repugnant pokeyness.”

“Pokeyness? We doin’ pioneer times now? Need me to hitch up the buggy to ol’ Annabelle so we’s can make the trip ‘cross the Oregon Trail to get to finite? Sorry, prof, can’t run a billion T-tests today, I got me the dysentery from some bad crick water, looks like the bakery’s gonna have to figure out its own damn supply needs.”

You giggle at his surprisingly well-crafted southern accent.

“Do you not say ‘pokey’ in big ol’ New York? Perhaps it is a Western thing.”

You shoulder your backpack, grab your portfolio, and gesture towards the door in an overwrought ‘after-you.’ As you turn to follow Dave, you sneak a glance to where Rose is engaged in what appears to be a decidedly one-sided conversation with Karkat. She catches your eye and smiles. You look quickly away.


	2. It's Irony, Kanaya. Pay Attention.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kanaya and Dave kill a fifth of Smirnoff and speak with varying levels of comprehensibility. Much pale, such bros.

“You know what? No—no more questions. I’ma give you the Baba Wawa third degree, see how you like it!”

Dave gestures emphatically with his red solo cup, and your fingers itch to take it away from him so that he doesn’t spill on your carpet. You restrain yourself because this is your doing. Dave drapes himself across your couch and pulls an afghan over his head.

“Kanaya, this couch. I love this couch. Kan, this couch: it is my home. Every day you’re gonna come home and I’ll be here like one’a those gross hippie dudes that Gamzee always brings home all talkin’ about how my band is gonna go on tour an’ how Umphrey’s McGee once used my bandana as a shitrag.” He flails around under the afghan and presents you with his shirt. “Sniff my bandana, Kanaya, it smells like one love and fuckin’ patchouli.”

This is what you have wrought.

Against your better judgment, you sniff the shirt, proclaim it to smell like Old Spice, and lay it out on your lap.

“Did you iron on this decal yourself?” You run your fingers over the smooth crow taking flight on the mustard yellow H&M v-neck.

“Put a bird on it,” Dave mumbles and sits up. You smirk and pour two more shots from a nearly-empty fifth of Smirnoff. You hand him the Hooters shot glass and keep the one emblazoned with PARTY WITH SLUTS for yourself. Though it is painfully tacky, you have to admit that your roommate’s taste in glassware has a certain charm when it comes to binge drinking.

“To _Wheatfield with Crows_.” You raise your glass and toss Dave’s shirt at him. He tries to catch it and instead falls off of the couch. His glass, miraculously, does not spill, and your heartrate begins to settle.

“Kanaya no, it’s Portlandia. Irony. Pay attention.” You know better. You empty your shot and Dave does the same, head falling back on the floor with a muffled thunk. He crawls under the coffee table.

“Dave?”

“’m sorry, Kan’s couch, I never meant to hurt you, I never meant to make you cry, but tonight, I live under this table,” he sings.

“Tell me about your family, Dave.”

“Kanaya, shoosh, my fort is impenetrable to your words and scary green eyes.”

“Is your sister gay?”

“Is _your_ sister gay?”

“Last I spoke with her, she was identifying as pansexual.”

“Shit, really? Nice. Porrim’s hot, can’t be excludin’ nobody.”

“Dave.” You scooch your face under the table until it’s mere inches from his.

“What?” His eyebrows shoot up and he peers at you from over his crooked shades, eyes half-lidded and lips slightly parted.

“Is Rose single?”

Dave rolls his face into the carpet and groans for what seems like minutes. He places a hand on your forehead and gives you a couple paps. You are undaunted.

“Who’s Bro? He always sends you such nice Hello Kitty-themed care packages.”

Voice muffled, Dave replies, “Bro’s good like that. Sends Rose Twilight ones. Dude’s a goddamn artist. Mom’s kinda shitty at it, sends us French Vogue’s she gets at the airport. Somethin’ about appreciatin’ boobies, I’unno, ‘least she tries. Rose used to get shitty ‘bout it, thought it was a passive-aggressive thing. Girl doesn’t get irony ‘til Othello’s got the pillow shoved halfway down her throat, y’know?”

You nod, not knowing. Dave’s palm rests on your forehead and his fingers begin to scritch at your scalp. You lean into the sensation.

“Have you always lived in New York?”

“Not ‘til middle school. Grew up in Houston with Bro.”

“Why did you move?”

Dave shrugs. “I dunno. Money?”

“Money?”

“No. Fuck. It was a lot of stuff.” Dave’s hand falls to the ground.

“Like, Mom and Bro finally made up. I mean, I’d only met them twice and then we’re in a UHaul dragging all our shit across the country to backwoods New York and living together like it’s the goddamn Brady Bunch or some shit only instead’a Cindy beggin’ Santa for Carol’s voice to come back in time to sing Silent fuckin’ Night, Jan’s runnin’ off ‘til a week after New Year’s while Marcia and Mom suck down gin like it’s from Don Draper’s dick.”

You do not catch much of Dave’s diatribe, but you do manage to ascertain that you have hit a nerve. Dave is reaching a dangerous level of anachronistic television references, so you expertly change the subject against your prying instinct.

“I never watched much of the Brady Bunch growing up. I much preferred more realistic concepts for my sitcoms like those of _Gilligan’s Island_ or _I Dream of Jeanie_.”

Dave snorts. You know that he can never resist the generous bait of _Gilligan’s Island_.

“Real slick, Kan. Look how derailed I am, I am now so far off that previous conversation, I’m nestled up in the bay area ‘bout to take a three-hour-tour on a kill-fuck-marry with the Professor, Mrs. Howell, and Gilligan. The answer may surprise you, tune in at 9.”

He pauses. “Hey, can I ask you a question?"

“Of course.”

He turns his head to face you, little lines all over his face from time spent carpetstuck. He looks terribly earnest.

“Kill-fuck-marry: Archie Andrews, Reggie Mantle, Ginger from _Gilligan’s Island_?”

You gape at him. “You are playing dirty, Mr. Strider. You know that Ginger was my first crush, and that Reggie Mantle is the absolute worst fictional teenager, and that I would rather eat glass than think of Archie as a legitimate partner.”

“Straight Sophie’s choice, right?”

You humph; Dave smirks.

“Ginger had the best coconut fort, though. Pink-ass fucking hut.” He pauses. “The hut didn’t fuck pink asses. I mean, maybe it did, I don’t know that hut’s life. It was like Pepto Bismal sucked down a fifth of Smirnoff and projectiled everywhere like one ‘a those sprinklers. Speaking of—”

Dave army crawls out from under the table, stands up, sways until he steadies, and stumbles to the bathroom. Poor thing. You stand and grimace as the room lurches. You’re drunker than you thought. Still, you soldier on to the kitchen and place a pitcher of water and some saltines onto a nice silver tray that you had picked up at an antique shop. You put on the kettle. It is with unimaginable grace and poise (and a few stumbles) that you walk to the bathroom door. You knock.

“You okay in there, darling?”

Dave groans.

“May I come in?”

Dave groans again, softer this time. You open the door, place the tray at Dave’s knees where they rest in worship to the porcelain god, and lay a hand between his shoulderblades. “I’m making tea. Call if you need anything else. Would you like me to put on a movie?” He flashes you a weary thumbs-up.

As you chop ginger root for the tea, you ponder the ethical ramifications of your recent actions. You also manage to keep both your finger and French tips from any irreversible knifing. You are fantastic at multi-tasking. Where were you? Dave. Right. Perhaps you should not have made Dave speak of something that he was so averse to sharing. Perhaps taking advantage of his rampant lightweight status opens up questions of consent. You wonder if he is blacked out.

The kettle whistles.

When you emerge from the kitchen with two cups of ginger tea, Dave is languishing on your couch wearing only a towel, his shades, and his shirt turbaned on his hair. You place the cup in his hand, and he murmurs, “If I don’t see _Frozen_ on this screen in T-minus ten, I will ruin this couch with my anger.”

You chuckle at his hollow tone and grant his request. By the end of the first number, Dave is fast asleep. You drape a quilt over him, tuck a pillow under his head, and resist the urge to press a kiss to his forehead. You settle for taking the shirt from his head and ruffling his still-wet hair. You find the rest of his clothing in your room, fold it, and place it within his arm’s reach. Experience has taught you that while inebriated Dave is swift to shed any and all clothing, freshly sober and hungover Dave is liable to flip the couch and hide under it until his clothes are found.

You are terribly fond of this boy.

\----

You awake the next morning to the repeated snapping of fingers. You gaze at the blue-painted nails and turn your head to come face to face with none other than Vriska Serket kneeling beside the loveseat upon which you fell asleep.

You cover your mouth to block what is surely heinous morning breath and try to focus your eyes into a coherent glare.

“Vriska.”

She snaps again.

“What?”

“I need a ride to work.”

You blink.

“You need cold cream and a change of clothes.”

“Please, Kanaya!” You close your eyes through each vowel, each shriller and more extended than the last. You pinch the bridge of your nose and sit up. The room tilts. You loose a decidedly unladylike grunt.

“Five minutes. Please go get yourself cleaned up” you peer at the hickies blooming on Vriska’s neck, “and put on a turtleneck so that you don’t lose another job thanks to Terezi’s ministrations.”

Vriska frowns. “Who said that’s where I was last night?” You glare until she turns around and bustles into her room.

“Dave?”

The lump on the couch curls into a tighter fetal position.

“Would you like a ride home? You are, of course, welcome to stay as long as you’d like.”

“Time is it?”

“Half past seven.”

Dave whines. “I fuckin’ swear, Terezi Pyrope and Vriska Serket exist to ruin my life.”

“I would bet that you are not the first to think so.”

Fifteen minutes later, the three of you are loaded into your ’98 Honda Civic. Vriska sulks in the back wearing one of your sleeveless black turtlenecks and a pair of grey trousers. She periodically kicks the back of Dave’s seat in retaliation for the indescribable disrespect of denying her earsplitting claim of shotgun. He plays Candy Crush with his feet propped up on your dash, actively ignoring her. You are just glad that you managed to brush your teeth before leaving the house.

You parallel park in front of the office building where Vriska does data entry. She has had the job for nearly half a year, and from what you can tell, she is passably competent at it. You’re just happy that she’s out of the house and not marinating the couch in Cheeto dust for weeks at a time.

“I don’t need to be walked in, Fussyface,” Vriska sneers as you exit the car with her.

“Oh hush, we’re getting coffee. And you are quite welcome for the ride.” Vriska rolls her eyes.

“Hold up. Pourhouse is like ten miles away. If I walk that I will die. I’m not some slave you can just con into wandering around some desert in Saudi Arabia for forty years by saying it’s only two blocks away every couple hours,” Dave says through the open window

“It’s only two blocks away and I am morally opposed to paying for parking. I will not even begin to parse that butchered Biblical reference.”

Dave makes a show of exiting the car and slouching with his hands shoved into his pockets.

“The harrowed teen look would be more effective if you were not wearing women’s jeans with tiny pockets.”

Dave sighs dramatically, flashes you a miniscule smirk, and takes off down the sidewalk at a snail’s clip.

“Your boyfriend is fucking weird.”

“You are perfectly aware that we are both gay.”

From over his shoulder, “Gay is just a number, Kanaya. Remember this wisdom; it is sagely as fuck.”

“Your boyfriend,” Vriska turns on her heel, “is fucking weird.”

At the coffee shop, you order a latte for Dave and a double americano for yourself. After a few minutes of waiting, you bring the drinks to the booth that Dave has claimed and sit down. You take the over-large shades from your face and rub at your weary eyes. You feel heavy and distracted.

“It’s happened, Kanaya,” Dave lays his face on the cool tabletop. “I have become the hangover.”

“Hmm?”

“I am the hangover. It is me.”

Silence settles between you like a weight. You are not sure if the queasiness in your gut is from the dregs of undigested alcohol sloshing about or from the words caught in the back of your throat.

“Dave?” No response.

You poke Dave’s forehead, and he peeks an eye up at you over his shades.

“Yeah?”

You nervously play with a lock of hair near your ear.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable last night. There must be a reason that you do not like to talk about your family, and it was wrong of me to pry when you were clearly opposed.” You sip at your coffee and look Dave in the eye. “And it was wrong to ask you all those questions when you were intoxicated. But I want you to know that when, or if, you ever want to share with me, I am here for you. We have known each other for a while now, and I think that we have gotten quite close, and I appreciate all of the time that we have spent together. And I hope that we will continue to be friends for a long time.”

Dave puts a hand over his mouth to hide his grin. You blush. “Oh hell, I’m rambling. Look, just, I am sorry for last night. Can you forgive me?”

Dave pushes his shades on top of his head, takes your hand in both of his, and looks you square in the eyes. “Damn, Kan, that was helly heartfelt. You must _really_ want to bang my sister.”

You explode into a relieved giggle and throw a sugar packet at his head. To his credit, he does not even blink when the packet hits him on the nose and falls to the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why in the everloving hellfuck did you think it was a sensible decision to sign a lease with Vriska Serket, Kanaya?
> 
> Isn't this a Rosemary fic?


	3. Dumb lite-brite patterns that tripping old guys made up a million years ago.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sollux has a party. Kanaya is popular amongst the Strilonde siblings. Smash Bros. is a better indication of personality than the Myers-Briggs could ever hope to be.

This is not how you expected to lose the last shred of your innocence. In fact, you were fairly sure that innocence was a fallacious concept invented by the patriarchy as a method of creating conceptual and liquid value based on sexual experience. Or maybe that’s something Porrim told you. Regardless, you stare at Dave and Sollux in abject, open-mouthed horror as they explain to you a concept of which you were blessedly ignorant before this day.

“See, Kan, when a daddy and his twinky little friend love each other very much, they do something very beautiful and wondrous to prove their love.”

Dave pats his knee, beckoning you to come over and have a sit. You stay firmly rooted to your beanbag.

“I know how two men have sex, Dave. This is not about that, you _know_ that this is not about that,” you snap.

Sollux looks like he might pop a blood vessel as he struggles not to burst into hysterics at your discomfort. You know that the only thing restraining him is the desire not to miss anything due to any uproarious laughter. Bastard.

“I always thought your mother would be the one to tell you about this, but ever since she fell in the thresher, bless her soul, it’s been up to me to guide you on your path to blossoming womanhood.”

Dave peers at you over his shades; Sollux gasps out a laugh; your lips press into a thin line.

“I can’t say it’s been easy, Kanaya, watching you grow into a bad bitch like me, denyin’ your Grandmother’s Gucci, Louie, and Fendi heirlooms. Why, the day Swag started pumpin’ out your ovaries, I damn near broke down cryin’.”

One more female rapper reference and you are going to strangle him.

“But I made my peace.” Dave puts one hand to his heart and the other to his forehead. “My baby girl is just so fancy, and dammit, I knew! I already knew!”

You leap up.

“How the hell does any of this have to do with poopdick!?”

Sollux rolls off of the couch, his laughter silent in its sheer violence. Dave is snickering into his hand.

“Oh my God. You made me say it.”

You fall back onto your beanbag, deflated, giggling at the utter ridiculousness of being had.

There is a knock on the door to the rhythm of Shave and a Haircut. Sollux spends a few moments composing himself on the floor. Apparently he takes far too long, because the visitor keeps knocking with increasing vigor.

“Jesus Christ, calm down, I’m fucking coming!”

Sollux opens the door.

“You better not be comin’ yet, hot stuff, the night’s still young and I’m still rarin’.” A tall blonde in a pink Alpha Chi Omega sweatshirt, black leggings, and what you must admit are fabulous black pumps leans against the doorframe, a bottle of Beefeater dangling from her black-painted nails. She looks oddly familiar. You wonder at Sollux’s propensity to lure highly attractive girls into his inner circle. You turn to Dave to ask his opinion, see the look of confusion on his face, and are awash with a sense of déjà vu.

“Davey! Omigod, Sollux didn’t tell me you’d be here!”

“Sup, Rox.”

Roxy bounds over and leaps onto the couch, head landing in Dave’s lap. His only reaction is a sharp puff of air upon impact. Roxy puts the gin on the table, places her two index fingers in the corners of Dave’s mouth, and pushes up. You can practically smell the pregaming for the pregame.

“Smile for me, Davey, I wanna see your grills.”

“Hold up, I didn’t catch that, you wanna see my what?”

Roxy giggles. “Aren’t you happy to see your bestest big sis?”

Wait, what?

“Wait, where’s Rose? I’m so glad I brought Rose! Roooose! Where’d you go? C’mere and join the reunion.”

You now notice Rose standing just inside the doorway surveying the scene with an inscrutable expression. You are halfway through mentally undressing her and feeling like a total skeez by the time you realize she is walking towards you with a friendly smile on her face. She lowers herself into a gamer chair beside you and primly crosses her legs.

It is then that Roxy notices you, takes her fingers out of Dave’s mouth, and rolls over in Dave’s lap to look at you.

“Hi! I’m Roxy, nice to meet you!”

You open your mouth to reply, but Roxy cuts you off, “You’re Kanaya, right?” At the probably perplexed look that springs to your face, Roxy grins and continues, “Like I don’t stalk the shit out of my baby bro’s facebook. Y’all are always takin’ selfies like total dorks. All kindsa adorbs, though.”

She reaches up and pinches Dave’s cheek. “I’d introduce you to Rose, but from what I hear, you kids are already acquainted.” Roxy follows this up with a saucy wink and an exaggerated eyebrow waggle.

You blink. “Nice to meet you, too.”

Roxy rolls off of Dave’s lap, stands up, and latches onto Sollux who has been watching the proceedings like it’s a goddamn sitcom from a spot on the wall.

“Plz tell me you got the makin’s for our famous haxxor bombs. We gotta educate the youths.” She gestures grandly to the rest of the room.

“Sollux is our age, Rox. You’re the one contributing to juvenile delinquency like it’s some sorta after-school special up in here.”

“Eat a dick, Strider. Roxy knows emotional maturity when she sees it. Now if you’ll excuse us,” he offers his arm to Roxy who immediately takes it, “We have to get our handicaps up so the humiliation is all the sweeter when we teabag all teh n00b ass.”

“Baby, I love it when you talk dirty.”

The two exit to the kitchen in a flurry of Roxy’s chatter about something incomprehensible and computer-related. You glance at Dave, see his jaw clenched dangerously tight, and resist the urge to get up and give him a hug. You figure that to do so in front of Rose would not go over well. The siblings are locked in a staring contest, and you are pretty sure that if it is awkwardly silent for one more second you will die.

“Does anyone know what a ‘haxxor bomb’ is?”

_Really_ , you think, _this is the best you can do_.

Rose takes it in stride.

“If my sister’s ramblings on the way here are to be trusted, which typically I would caution against, a ‘haxxor bomb’ is the trashy cousin of the Jaeger bomb and involves a shot of clear liquor chased with some variety of Monster or like energy drink.” She gestures towards the gin.

“I was under the impression that a Jaeger bomb was the trashiest cousin of them all, but I will take your word for it.”

“Slow down there, Rose, no need to be passin’ out knowledge like it’s a weekday. I’ve still got a helluva deficit that I haven’t killed off with booze yet and here you are throwin’ me deeper in the red before the night’s even started.”

“My deepest apologies.”

Roxy and Sollux reappear with armfulls of multi-colored Monster energies and shot glasses.

“All the colors of the rainbow for all my little homo childrens. I am, like, the best, most-supportive ally big sister/ badass mentor ever.” She passes out shot glasses.

“Ally? Didn’t you get kicked out of your sorority for fucking your sisters in the common room?”

Sollux laughs. “You were in a sorority?”

“Shut up, I only pledged there ‘cause I wanted to meet that girl that did the fire extinguisher thing. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Sd-j0rKeKw">You know</a>, ‘I’ll just sweep! I’ll sweep the floooors!’ I never thought they’d take me. Oh yeah, and turned out that girl went to school like a state away, but then it was kinda fun and Mom thought it was hilar so I stayed on.”

You find this story reasonable and comical until you remember that sororities were obscenely expensive. Who just casually joins a sorority?

“Why am I talking about Alpha Chi? Oh yeah! With all this heteronormativity I got under my belt, I’m the straightest one here, so I’ve gotta do my best to rep the breeders.”

“Screw you, I’m bi!”

Roxy ignores him. “Actually, wait,” she pauses in her shot-pouring and looks at you, “I just sorta assumed your queerness what with the artist thing and the hanging out with Dave thing and the super-cute short bob haircut thing. Shit, did I just do the thing where I make a’ ass outta you and me?”

“Slow down with the things there, Roxy, we’re already pretty crammed in this shitty one-bedroom.” Sollux flips Dave a double bird.

“Oh no, you hit the nail quite on the head, no need to worry,” you assure Roxy. Rose throws you a sidelong glance that you do not miss. You knock back the gin and chase it with Monster in a bright green can that tastes vaguely of coffee and battery acid.

“So, how did the drawings turn out?” Rose is smirking at you, politely. How is that even possible? You are not nervous. You are an adult.

“They could have been better. I’m afraid that I am a bit rusty working with life. Hopefully, things will go better come Tuesday. You should see Dave’s. Once he stopped doing the comic heads, he composed some truly lovely pieces.”

“Geez, Kanaya, I’m blushing over here.”

“You should send one to Mom! She would go gaga for a drawing of her little Rosie all grown up and taking her clothes off for strangers. Espesh if the artist is her little bby boy.”

“Don’t you dare. I will not come home to find a framed, blown-up version of myself in the foyer above the wizard statues.”

“Aw, you called it home!”

“What’re you guys talking about? Are you guys drawing strippers now? I expected that kinda weird shit from Strider, but you, Kanaya?”

Rose interjects, “I model for the art department. I am loathe to equate it with stripping, because I am not paid half as well.”

You shrug. “I would not be opposed to drawing a stripper while she is at work as long as she knew of my intentions and consented. She would be sure to receive a very nice tip for her efforts.”

“All right, raise ‘em, it’s toast time,” Roxy announces. You are surprised to realize that this is the fifth round already and when did you all break into a second bottle? You raise your glass; Roxy clears her throat dramatically.

“When the great Solluxander Captor texted me those five hours ago sayin’ I should come over, drink to excess, and play Mario Kart, I thought I was the happiest girl in the word.” Sollux bows. “But then, I was like, I gotta share this happy with my little baby sis who I never see even though we live in the same town and who needs stop reading stuff about dead white guys and get the hell outta the house sometimes.”

“To be fair, my house is quite nice.”

“Shoosh, and then I go get Rosey and get her all cute cause there were some intimations that this was gonna be a party,” Roxy shoots Sollux a critical look.

“More people are coming over, it’s only 9!”

“Uh huh, anyway, what was I saying? Oh yeah, so I get us over here and what do I find? Dave! Dave ‘I’m-too-cool-to-ever-call-my-big-sis-back’ Strider, is sitting there on the couch like a motherfucking miracle! Ps Dave, I love your roommate, he says the best things.” Dave groans, and Roxy waves her hand for quiet. This may well be the worst toast you have ever heard.

“And Kanaya, who I’ve been dying to meet but Dave has been hiding from the family for like a year. Like, get this, Kan, can I call you Kan? Kan, he’s been guarding you like Fluffy on top of the Sorcerer’s Stone. I thought I was gonna have to learn the lute and come drop some sick dithyrambs to soothe his dorky butt to sleep so I could Eurydice you up outta there.”

“While I greatly appreciate the intricacy of your references, do please get on with it. My arm is beginning to cramp.” Rose glances at you, and you shoot her an appreciative smile.

“Oh shit, right. Uh, may your bottles always be in ice—“

“Like a blizzard,” Dave responds reverently.

“When you do, you do it right—“

“Gettin’ slizzard.”

“And may all the sober girls around you be forever ackin’ like they drunk!”

And to that, the five of you drink.

\--

From there, things begin to blur.

Roxy and Sollux cue up Smash Bros., a strobe light replaces the overhead, and Dave is given executive control of the sound system with Roxy occasionally overriding as “the Ke$ha impulse” takes her. Eridan and Feferi show up and join in the Smash rotation. People you don’t know pack the apartment. People you do know walk by without noticing you. You spend most of the night pressed up against a wall next to Rose people-watching and complaining about the taste of Monster. You taste the contents of Rose’s light-purple can, tell her that it tastes more pink than purple, watch Gamzee roll a functional joint one-handed and pocket ten dollars from an impressed Terezi.

Rose shifts so that your shoulders are touching.

“How much do you think that you can tell about a person based on their chosen Smash Bros. character?” She asks.

“Hmm. Probably everything down to their blood type.”

Rose grins. “You think it’s more how they perceive themselves or how they think others perceive them?”

“Depends on the game, I think. Sollux plays the Ice Climbers because of his duality thing. In 64 he plays Ness because he is so good at it. Your sister is the first person I’ve ever seen him lose to. Dave plays Link in 64 and Pit in everything else. Unless he’s showing off how ironic he is, then he plays Kirby.” Rose giggles.

“So you have to look at the transition, what people choose when they’re given more options. Interesting. Roxy plays Fox or Ness in 64, Sheik otherwise. So, we’re operating under the assumption that the fewer choices one has, the more likely they are to choose a character that reflects how they think society sees them. As options increase, one then has the opportunity and propensity to choose based on how they view themselves.”

“Correct.”

Rose turns to you and raises her eyebrows. “I bet I can guess you.”

You meet her eyes. The blue is so dark in the flashing light that they look violet.

“Shoot.”

“Yoshi, all games.”

“Close.”

“And you’re secretly excellent at Samus.”

“I am duly impressed.”

Rose hums happily.

“You play Zelda, never switch to Sheik because her combos are too flashy and not powerful enough.”

“That one’s easy. Who do I play in 64?”

You suck in air through your teeth and place a finger on your chin to ponder.

“Jigglypuff.”

She smacks her shoulder into yours. “You bitch.”

\--

The party is winding down. Dave plays <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GHC8Hwq9Eag">his fourth Wrecking Ball remix</a> of the night. Rose disappears to find a bathroom. Sollux has long since holed up in his room with Aradia, Eridan, and Feferi. Small groups linger in the living room. Rose has been gone for a while, so you end up outside on the tiny balcony. You take your first lungful of fresh air in hours and sigh it out in what feels like a full-body cleanse.

You contemplate asking Rose out. You are fairly certain that she would say yes, but the prospect of putting yourself on the line fills you with dread. You wonder how you’re going to get home tonight, if you’ve already missed the last bus to Dave’s place. You glance at your watch; you still have another couple hours. How long will it take to mobilize Dave? Should you aim for the 3:05, or would it be safer to be there in time for the 2:15? You think about kissing Rose, running your hands through the blonde hair that was so soft when it touched your cheek not so long ago. What will she and Roxy do? How were they getting home? What must she think of you that she was able to guess that you play Yoshi in Smash Bros.?

You wonder at the holes still present in the narrative that is Dave Strider’s family structure. The biggest mystery is that of the last names since you reason via basic math that Dave and Rose have to be twins. On another note, the three siblings seem to get along well. Dave’s heretofore habit of aggressive reticence seemed out of place when they were all together. Perhaps the alcohol helps. Rose had been tense, too, earlier in the night. Your head falls back against the brick, and you resign yourself to ignorance, patience, and not being a terrible friend. You have a feeling that you are breaking that third vow as you imagine Rose’s pretty purple nails digging into your back as she shivers and sighs out your name.

You are the worst. It is you.

The glass door slides open and Roxy steps onto the balcony. She doesn’t notice you sitting there off to the side and leans on the blue and red Christmas lights wrapped around the railing. She sighs loud enough for you to hear and gazes up at the clear night sky.

“Fuck,” she murmurs and shakes her head. She looks like she might start crying.

“Are you okay?” you ask. She starts so violently that you fear she will topple to the ground and break her neck.

“Shitfuck! Who is that? Kanaya? You scared me! What are you doin’ out here all hidin’ in the shadows like some kinda spooky vampire?”

“I was getting some fresh air. I think the apartment is out of oxygen; it’s only carbon dioxide and THC now. I apologize for scaring you. If I interrupted a moment, I think I can handle inside again.” You start to stand up but Roxy waves dismissively, and you sit back down.

She leans backwards on the railing and stares back up at the sky. The silence would be unnerving if you were not drunk. As such, you are content to stare off into space while Roxy stares at space.

“Do you know any constellations?”

“Hmm?”

“Constellations. Asterisms. Dumb lite-brite patterns that tripping old guys made up a million years ago.”

“Oh. Yes. Most of them,” you glance up at the sky, “The light pollution here makes it difficult to see anything more than the Ursa’s, but back home in New Mexico you can see everything.” You faintly make out Cassiopeia, and you gaze at the smoky blob of navy blue and grey where Andromeda should be. “Looking at the sky here always makes me homesick.”

Roxy hums.

“Lake Placid is like that, too. Dark, you can actually see the Milky Way, the whole shebang. There’s this room that Mom calls the observatory, but it’s really just a widow’s walk that you can drag a telescope out onto.” Roxy looks at you. “You should make Dave bring you there sometime. You’d like it. You seem like you would like the woods, too. They’re top-tier woods.”

“They sound nice.”

“I’m not bugging you, am I?”

Roxy is biting her lower lip. Holy hell, why is everyone in this family radiantly beautiful? You put on your most reassuring smile.

“Of course not. You’re nice to talk to.”

Roxy smiles back, then turns back to the sky.

You decide to ask the question that’s been burning at you all night.

“At the risk of sounding rude and terrible at wording things, why are you here?”

“You mean here as in 24-years-old and drunk as shit at some undergraduate’s lame party or here, like, in the cosmic sense?”

“In between. I mean, Rose mentioned that you went to Carnegie Melon for undergrad and that you turned down their fellowship to come here.”

“Oh.” Roxy laughs, “I guess it is kinda weird that we’re all in the same place outta state, isn’t it? I had a couple offers. Carnegie’s was the sweetest, A&M’s wasn’t bad, but then I heard that Davey had decided to come here to do his art stuff. And, you know, they have the cyclotron here so I can still do research, and the midwest is better than I thought it’d be. Everyone’s friendly, and there’s lakes and everyone’s got a cousin with a lake house and wants to take you out on their boat. And a lot of time it’s just cause they wanna be your friend and won’t be super bent outta shape if you just wanna fish and daydrink like bros and don’t wanna fuck ‘em for, like, payment or something weird and gross like that.”

“I was also pleasantly surprised at the sheer volume of lakes only twenty minutes away.”

“Those shitty old money boys on the east coast are never cool like that. Oh, ‘nother benefit, if someone decides to nuke us, they’ll probs hit the coasts, and we’ll be safe from the initial strike and the consequent dissolution of society ‘cause we’ll still be able to agriculture stuff.”

“The second the bombs start falling, on your doorstep I will be.”

Roxy plops down next to you. “I can see why Dave likes you. You listen to inane shit and don’t zone out like everyone else.”

“I did ask you a question. It is only fair that I pay attention to the whole answer. I’m sorry that boys have been awful to you.”

“I’m blonde and people think I’m dumb as hell, and I don’t do much to convince ‘em otherwise, so par for the course, I guess.”

“I don’t think that you’re dumb as hell.”

“Lol, thanks.”

You do not care that you are probably having a moment and give Roxy a look.

“Did you just say ‘lol’ as a word in an out-loud conversation?”

She snickers and kicks your foot. “Whateva, I do what I want.”

After a few moments of silence, you say, “I do not understand your family.”

“Me neither. We’re a pack of weirdos, aren’t we?”

“No – well, yes, that is true. I meant that you all have different last names and what I think is a non-traditional family structure with which I am not familiar. For the record, I think your peculiar personalities are all quite charming.”

“That’s good to hear. I’m p sure Davey wants to Will and Grace with you, and I am not at liberty to disclose Rose’s totes obvious opinions on you ‘cause she’s only just starting to like me again, and I don’t wanna fuck that up.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Totes obvious?”

“Nooop, I didn’t say anything, my lips are zipped up tighter than the jeans on David Bowie’s body.” She mimics lip-zipping, and you huff.

“But yeah, I guess it doesn’t seem weird to me ‘cause it’s mine, and I forget about the last names thing.”

You look at her expectantly. You have decided to be neither patient nor ignorant, and you are unsure where this puts you in terms of ‘terrible friend’ territory, but you are probably fine and at worst mildly malicious?

“It’s funny that Dave is so secretive about this stuff with you.”

When she does not continue, you almost let it go. Almost.

“Roxy, this is killing me. Who is Bro?”

“Rose and Dave’s dad.”

At the odd face you pull, Roxy smiles, “I know, right? It’s some nerdy anime joke-thing that’s been goin’ strong since two-thousand-fuckin’-seven. Dirk’s a cool dude, we’ve always been pals, and he never tried to do the whole ‘dad’ thing with me. Or, well, with anyone, really. He kinda did with Dave when they moved to Texas which was a whole fuckin’ _thing_ , lemme tell ya. I was six when they left, and Mom was okay for a couple years, but she got really bad there for a minute and only ever kinda got better.”

It appears that you tripped a wire; you pack in for the impending monologue.

“Like, she had her career and now two girls all by herself, and her best friend slash babydaddy hated her guts and was all cagey about visiting, and she didn’t even get to say he was a shitty deadbeat cause Dave seemed fine and Dirk sent checks every month like clockwork that we didn’t need and birthday presents and calls for me and Rose.”

Roxy looks like she is trying to quell the pained expression rising to her face. Her poker face is very different from her brother’s but equally unpracticed in the field of difficult emotions. Where Dave monotones and maintains a tenacious flatness, Roxy sports a controlled, winning smile and an unflappable enthusiasm. Yet, they pad themselves with the same verbal fluff, the same distracting cultural references. If you had to guess with your limited interaction, you would say that Rose’s bullshit methodology is somewhere in between.

“She did rehab a couple times. The nice, resort-y kind ‘cause we’re fucking WASP’s. You could board at our snotty-ass private school, so we’d just do that when she was gone. Nobody ever said anything outright because, again, fucking WASP-y-ass shit, but parents talk and Rosie got teased ‘cause kids have ears, duh, and know it’s weird if you only live there every couple semesters and sometimes even stay for breaks. Ugh, and Mom tried so hard, too, but I was always the one who fucked it up.”

Roxy draws her knees to her chest and rests her chin on them.

“I started drinking while we were living at school ‘cause that’s what the cool kids did and I brought it home with me when Mom got us back again. I was all like ‘fuck tha police, my alky mom can’t tell me what to do’ like the little shit I was. And she tried, she really did, I swear she did. But it was too much and she started up again, and by that time Rose was eleven so she was old enough to know that shit was fucked and smart enough to hide out in her books.

“All this time, there was, like, this huge, unspoken ban on telling Dirk about the drinking or the rehab, and it was this huge secret that we all managed to somehow keep. Mom was always a champ at sounding sober on the phone, and I just never answered, and Rosie was bitter and didn’t wanna talk to him anyway. He and Dave visited a couple times and we still managed to keep that shit under wraps.

“And then I was a dumbass and had to get my stomach pumped sophomore year, and shit hit the fan when the hospital called Dirk ‘cause Mom wasn’t picking up and he was my other emergency contact ‘cause my dad is trash. And it was weird, ‘cause you couldn’t really tell how Dirk felt about it, like he couldn’t decide whether to be mad or sad or embarrassed or all of them so he just did none of them and turned the house into a minefield. If you think we’re all shitty with emotions, oh man, you should see Dirk. Dude likes to make himself out to be a robot, but he’s got a limbic system just like the rest of us, and just ‘cause you don’t wanna acknowledge that you’re just gross chemicals dumped on smelly meat folds doesn’t mean that it stops being a thing that’s true!”

Roxy’s voice pitches high and quavers. You sense danger and place a hand on her shoulder. She buries her face in a hand and laughs nervously.

“Shit, sorry, story time is getting to me. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this; I never talk about all this.”

“You don’t have to keep going,” you say, and quickly add, “but you can if you want.”

“Oh my God, I didn’t even answer your original question. All you wanted to know was who Bro was and why we have different last names. You didn’t want a fucking family history.”

“I am not at all opposed to receiving a fucking family history.”

Roxy laughs and seems to relax a bit.

“I just wish I could go back and fix shit, y’know?”

You hum.

“I could’a told Dirk what was going on sooner, maybe he would’a come back. And then maybe things wouldn’t’ve been so weird between Rose and Dave ‘cause who seriously thinks you can shove two lonely kids lousy with puberty together and expect them to act like a normal brother and sister.” You worry that your eyebrows are going to fly off of your forehead, and Roxy groans. “Fuck, I should not be talking about this. They’ll kill me. Pretend I didn’t say anything about that.”

You process _a lot_ of implications while nodding because Roxy looks near-frantic. “Do not worry. Tonight is between us.”

“Okay, good.”

Roxy sighs, and the following silence is somewhere between comfortable and weighty. A police siren wails in the distance.

The sudden scrape of the glass door opening startles both of you and Rose peers down at you and Roxy with another unreadable expression.

“Am I interrupting something?”

Roxy snaps back into herself and lurches to her feet, grin plastered to her face.

“Haha, naw, Kan and I were just chattin’ ‘bout space and shit. You know if there’s any booze left inside?” Her voice slurs even though she had been perfectly coherent with you moments ago.

“Some of the whiskey Eridan brought is still left, if I am not mistaken.”

“Fuckin’ choice. Peace out, y’all. Nice talk, Kanaya.” Roxy pauses in front of Rose, and Rose regards her suspiciously. Hesitantly, Roxy brushes Rose’s hair behind her ear, the back of her fingers lingering for a moment on her sister’s cheek. Rose looks taken aback; Roxy laughs unconvincingly and disappears inside. You stand up and lean forward on the railing. She joins you a moment later and mimics your stance, your forearms just barely touching.

“I was looking for you.”

“Obviously not terribly hard. It’s only a one-bedroom apartment, and the bedroom is closed off,” you tease.

“Perhaps you had joined the polyamorous shenanigans which have been steadily increasing in volume, how was I to know? Though I do admit that I may have gotten caught up talking with my brother. He is very drunk.”

“Shocking.”

“He seemed very interested in my opinions concerning something called ‘poopdick.’”

You shudder. Rose grins.

“Did you really get stuck in a science talk with Roxy?”

“Yes, among other things. She is very friendly.”

“Oh? Such as?”

“Nothing too deep. We agreed that lakes are pleasant topographical features of this region, but it is unfortunate that the night sky is not more visible.”

Rose laughs.

“Sounds riveting.”

She traces two fingers down your olive-complected forearm, and you suppress a shudder.

“You have lovely skin.”

You gently grab her hand and inspect her pale, narrow fingers.

“You, too.”

Your eyes meet, and you are frozen, uncertain, still holding her hand.

She bites her lip, bashfully looks away and then back at you.

“I’m sorry if this is too forward, but may I kiss you?”

“Oh good, I was hoping that was the direction in which we were headed. Yes, absolutely, you definitely may.”

You both laugh awkwardly, but no one moves. An amused voice in your head that sounds curiously like your sister’s informs you that you are ridiculous, why are you not kissing the pretty girl that explicitly stated that she wanted to kiss you. Porrim will be ecstatic to know that she has assumed the dubious honor of your Sapphic Jiminy Cricket.

Finally, Rose rolls her eyes, cups your jaw, and leans in. You close your eyes, your lips meet, and it is fantastic. The pressure is light, her lips move languidly against yours, and everything is pleasingly smooth and soft. She tastes of pink artificial flavoring and alcohol, and you cannot imagine that you taste any better, but you also cannot bring yourself to mind.

When she pulls away, her eyelids flutter, and your hand lingers on the back of her neck for a moment.

“That was nice.”

You smile dumbly and glance at the glass door to see Roxy grinning and flashing a double thumbs-up. A flush of embarrassment joins your blush of pleasure. Rose follows your gaze to the door, but Roxy has already skipped off and you’re left feeling sheepish.

“Very nice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roxy's toast is a [traditional Irish blessing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w4s6H4ku6ZY).


	4. Nagatha Christie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sollux's party is revisited; Gamzee Makara is unpleasant in that way upon which you cannot quite put your finger; Finals loom; Everyone feels general malaise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna go ahead and bump this little guy up to Mature. This is chapter is a lot less fluffy than the others. Nagatha Christie: shamelessly stolen from Bob's Burgers.

The night of Sollux’s party does not end with that single kiss. In fact, you and Rose spend the next hour on the balcony making out like sloppy drunk girls. Eventually, it hits you like a bucket of ice water that you have a late bus to catch if you hope to make it across town before dawn, and while you try to convince yourself that you are incapable of dredging up a care from give-a-fuck bay, your reasonable side wins out.

You have Dave to think about, and it is hardly practical to do anything more than the thus far accomplished heavy petting on a 3x5 balcony.

So, with a vague sense of self-loathing for your incapability of living in the moment, you extricate Rose’s tongue from your tonsils, tap your number into her phone, and re-enter the apartment.

You find Dave fast asleep against Roxy who strokes her brother’s hair with one hand and plays phone games with the other.

“Dang, thought you two might’a fused like one of those two-headed soulmate things Aristophanes was on about.” She sticks her tongue out at you and waggles it.

You roll your eyes.

“The hour of the last bus is fast-approaching, and it is my duty to get Dave home in one piece. Also, falling asleep on this couch has, in my experience, led to unpleasant consequences.”

You shudder at the memory of waking up to a face-full of Ampora genitalia as he had demanded that you move your legs so as to maximize his relaxation while smoking his morning bowl. When you had reacted less than favorably, i.e. shrieked like you had been set on fire, he had huffed indignantly and plopped down on your bare legs.

You kneel in front of Dave and murmur his name while papping gently at his cheek.

“Nope.”

“Come, darling, we cannot stay here.”

“This’s my new home. This couch an’ I are in love. Like, how can a couch be so warm? Riddle me that shit.” He nuzzles into Roxy’s thigh.

“That’s me, kiddo.” Dave’s eyes snap open, and he looks up at Roxy with that same expression of muted horror that he seems to reserve exclusively for his sisters. She grins at him.

He jumps up and grabs the couch arm to steady himself.

“You know, Kan, you make an amazing point. What would the night-owl bus drivers do if they didn’t get to chauffeur my shambly-chic ass all over town? Dude’s def been waiting all night for an eyeful ‘a all this.” He strikes a pose and sways. You reach out to steady him while simultaneously smoothing his hair and straightening his shades.

“Do you have your phone? Wallet? Please have your ID handy; I do not want another rap-off with a public transit worker because you did not bring your student ID.”

Roxy snickers. “Girl, you’re such a mom.”

You press your hand to the small of Dave’s back and gently push him in the direction of the door. You hope the momentum is enough to get him all the way there and that he is not waylaid by any stray beanbags or stoners.

Speaking of stoners, you regard a tightly-packed ball of limbs resting next to the TV. Against your better instinct, you poke Gamzee with your foot. You continue poking with increasing pressure until he raises his head and regards you with one eye from behind a shaggy mop of black hair.

“What up, sis?”

“Dave and I are returning to your apartment. The last bus of the night leaves in fifteen minutes. Would you care to join us?”

Gamzee blinks at you a few times, and you scowl. You cannot say that you care terribly for Dave’s roommate, and you curse the herding instinct that insists that you deposit drunk people safely in their homes.

“Today, please, Gamzee, this is a time-sensitive matter.” Something must click in his addled pate because understanding dawns in his eyes, and a grin splits his face. Ugh.

“Damn, girl, and all this time I was up and thinking you didn’t like me,” Gamzee unfolds and rights himself with a grace that you have always found simultaneously captivating and suspicious, “but here you are offerin’ me a horse-drawn chariot home like some kinda angel.”

“It is just the bus.”

You take an unconscious half-step back as he looks down on you from his full height of 6’5” with that lazy grin. The moment turns to moments, and despite the shivers down your spine, you stand as if paralyzed.

“Gonna have’ta move if you want me comin’ with you, sis.” You realize that you are boxing him in, shake off the unsettled feeling in your stomach, and take a few steps back. He gasps out a raspy laugh and goes to join Dave who has blessedly made it to the door without incident. Gamzee drapes an arm around Dave’s shoulders, and you notice that Dave does not shy away. You table this bright red flag because you do not have time to worry about it now.

Before you can make your way over there, you are stopped by a soft, “Hey, Kanaya?”

You turn to see Roxy regarding you sheepishly with her phone in her hand.

“Look, so, I know this is maybe kinda weird, but do you think we could exchange numbers? I know you’re my brother’s bffsie and you’re like one lockable door away from banging my sister, and, well, I don’t really know how to say it,” You blush; Roxy plays with her Hello Kitty necklace, “but you’re really nice to talk to, and you also talk to Dave, and Dave doesn’t really talk to me much. Like, you saw how he is around me, like he’s afraid of me or somethin’? Anyway, maybe you could help me get to know him again, how to talk to him, ‘cause I miss him and stuff?” Roxy is clearly struggling, so you take pity on her, smile, and place a reassuring hand on her wrist.

“Of course, no weirdness at all. It is, in fact, a weirdness-free zone.”

Roxy sighs in relief and hands you her phone. You enter your number and as you hand it back, Roxy pulls you into a bone-crushing hug. After you get over the initial surprise, it is only slightly unpleasant.

You return to Dave and Gamzee and all but push them out the door into the slightly-chilly spring night.

“We’re not little diaper babies, Kan, we can toddle to the bus stop without fallin’ on our asses without you. Can you just not handle yourself ‘round the Strilonde ass, do we smell that good, like sex and candy and rainbows and shit that you gotta have your hands on us 24/7?” You dismiss the edge in his voice as a product of his intoxication.

Gamzee backs Dave up with a sound resembling a goose’s honk. You tighten your grip on Dave’s elbow.

\--

You are not sure how to characterize Dave’s reaction to your burgeoning relationship with his sister. It is not negative; he throws not a single chair through a single window, and he does not cease communication with you. It is not positive; he does not integrate it into his daily teases or rants, the sure sign that he has accepted something into his life. Yet, his reaction is not nothing.

It is not nothing, because sleeping with Gamzee Makara and being a secretive little shit about it does not, in any world, qualify as nothing.

Dave’s atrocious taste in men is not news to you, and you comfort yourself through the skin-crawling accounts of one-, two-, and three-night stands with the conviction that he will probably grow out of it when he stops being young, gay, and in college. And if he does not, well, it is his life and out of your control, and you can only slip fresh prophylactics into his bedside table every so often, pray he uses them, and try not to be so judgey.

Thus, while it would gross you out to no end that Dave and Gamzee were engaging in relations, you would dismiss it with the comforting maxim of “this too shall pass.” After all, you lived through a month of Cronus Ampora. What bothers you now is that not only has Dave not yet related each encounter in sordid detail, as is his wont, but he has also been going so far as to conceal them, albeit poorly. What does he take you for?

As if you would not take notice of Dave’s sudden obsession with scarves or his newfound reticence of changing in front of you or the fact that you have _ears_ that can _hear_ the grunts and gasps and headboard slams when they think that you’re asleep.

If there is one thing that Dave Strider is not, it is slick.

“I like that scarf,” you say, casually, as you and Dave sit outside the art building working on an assignment.

Dave starts. “Oh yeah, thanks.”

It is silent for a few moments.

“Is it cashmere?”

“The hell’s a cashmere? Some kind’a fish?”

You reach out to touch the scarf. Dave stiffens but allows you to fondle the material. However, once you begin pulling at it as if to readjust, re: to check out his hickeys, he slaps your hands away, declaring you a “straight-up Nagatha Christie, ain’t no mysteries to solve here.”

You look at him, and seriousness creeps into your voice, “You can tell me anything, you know that, right?”

He sticks his tongue out at you. “Thanks Coach, I’ll keep that in mind. What time’s practice runnin’ to, today? I got loads of homework from that math teacher that keeps makin’ eyes at my privates.”

You humph and turn back to your drawing. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Dave messing with his scarf and catch a glimpse of reddish-purple.

\--

You like to think that you are not too self-centered, and that you have a functioning ability to check yourself before spiraling into narcissistic conspiracy theories. You tell yourself that there is no way Dave’s affair with Gamzee has anything to do with you, because thinking so would be a delusion.

But it has been two entire months, and, as far as you are aware, Dave’s longest relationship aside from that girl he once let slip that he dated in high school (you suspect that there is a lot more to the story of Jade Harley), and he is still pretending that it is not a thing that is happening.

You are about to crawl out of your skin.

It does not help that there is no one that you can talk to about this. You cannot unload on Rose because doing so would be a breach of her brother’s trust in you. The two of you never spend terribly long talking anyway.

You are not one to complain about getting laid, but between the emotional distance that you reluctantly maintain with Rose and the freshly-manufactured walls that Dave is erecting, you are disquieted.

You sit at the kitchen table, symbols of your academic dread spread before you: article on the Apollonian impulse in Neo-Enlightenment art, three differently-colored highlighters, lukewarm cup of coffee. You ignore this tableau in favor of glaring at your phone as if the sheer weight of your disapproval could alter the fabric of reality. Dave has been incommunicado for the past four days, and he had not been in class all week. This would be less concerning if this had not been the penultimate week of the semester.

You shove back the voice that points out that this period’s advent temporally coincided with your decision to eschew hanging out with Dave in favor of a ~~booty call~~ movie night with Rose. You remind yourself that Dave is a big boy, and as such he is allowed to have his own life separate from you.

You run through your millionth plan to storm his apartment.

You are startled from a graphic daymare featuring Dave impaled on his own “ironic” cosplay sword on his bathroom floor by a slam of the door that means that your roommate is home from work. After banging about the house in an aggravating fashion, Vriska plops into the seat across from you. Her resting bitchface contorts into a deeper scowl when you do not immediately look up from your blank phone screen to acknowledge her presence.

You bite back a smirk; antagonizing Vriska just a little makes you feel quite a bit better.

She slams her palms down on the table. “Oh my God, fucking stop!”

You snicker and finally look up at her. “Oh, Vriska, how long have you been home? How may I be of service to you?”

“What the fuck is your boyfriend’s problem?” Blunt, as always.

Your teasing grin melts.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what the fuck is going on between him, that fucking clown, and Terezi?”

“I don’t—“

“She won’t talk to me, she’s covered in bruises that aren’t from me, and she’s always over at that fucking apartment,” Vriska lunges across the table to jerk you forward by your collar, “so what the fuck is going on?”

The desperation in Vriska’s eyes stops you from immediately pushing her off, and something drops in your stomach.

When you finally find your voice, it is thin.

“I don’t know.”


	5. Implied Expectoration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kanaya expositions all over Roxy's nice apartment. She's never gonna get those stains out. Things get a touch more serious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good writing means telling, not showing, right? I added a couple tags. There's nothing particularly graphic.
> 
> Also, you guys that have commented so far are super nice. Thanks for the encouraging words!

You are sweating. You had the last of your finals over a week ago, and summer vacation was choosing to live up to its eponymous season with far too much gusto and atmospheric moisture to be at all comfortable. The choking humidity of the Midwest to which you have yet to become accustomed is in swing uncharacteristically early. Your tanktop is _linen_ , you skirt is _gauzy_ , and you are sweatinglike a _pig_. You like the heat; you grew up with the heat; you have an excellent tolerance to the heat. This heat is _wrong_.

You pause in your increasingly vitriolic thoughts concerning the weather to check your phone and make sure that you are going in the correct direction. You were generally quite good with directions, but it never hurt to be cautious – or to derail your thoughts when they become too unjustly violent towards inanimate forces.

You know that the weather is just an unlucky scapegoat, but it is far easier to complain about humidity percentages than to have to confront the maelstrom churning in your brain.

You peer up at a gigantic building and are blinded by the glare of sun on freshly-cleaned glass. This must be the place. When you enter the lobby, you are greeted by both a blast of arctic air conditioning and a friendly doorman. _A doorman, holy hell_. You give him your name, he checks a clipboard, smiles too brightly, and buzzes you into the elevator. You hit the button for the top floor per the doorman’s instructions and take a last look at the two-story fountain as the doors slide shut.

The doors open to a faintly familiar jazzy tune drifting down the hallway. As you advance, the tune grows louder and is joined by two female voices, the one on the track and the other singing along.

_The name on everybody’s lips is gonna be—_

You gasp in delight when you realize the song – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u_KyytXwA7g&t=0m8s.

– _Roxie. The lady rakin’ in the chips is gonna be Roxie_

You love _Chicago_ , more than you can possibly say. The music is brilliant, the period costumes are glitzy and fabulous, and, you must admit, the beautiful women doing sexy dances struck a particular chord with your barely pubescent self when your sister snuck you into the film’s premiere at your local megaplex. When you had left the theatre, Porrim had poked your flushed cheeks and asked if you had seen anything that you liked and grinned that infuriatingly knowing grin of hers.

You realize the song is drifting to a close and that you have been standing, fist raised and poised to knock on the polished wooden door for nearly the length of a Broadway number, and that cannot possibly be appropriate. You glance around, thank whomever that there is only one other apartment on this floor, and allow Miss Zellweger and her accompaniment to belt out the last few notes.

Roxy Lalonde answers your polite knock with a characteristic bright smile and – you manage to stop yourself from snickering – an embarrassed blush.

“Holy shitsnacks, is it one already?”

“I am afraid so.” You hold up your watch as confirmation. Roxy peers at it, scrunches her nose, and shakes her head.

“Welp, there goes showering and changing then, looks like you’re gonna have to deal with gross me.”

You study the neon-pink Alpha Chi tank top, the home-cut Daisy Dukes, and the loose ponytail atop Roxy’s head. She nibbles at her bottom lip and you realize that your scrutiny has gone on a few beats too long.

“Surely we’ll be able to manage. I think I am more sweat than person at this point. Have you been outside today? It is hellish!”

Roxy laughs and leads you inside her apartment. Correction, her _really nice apartment_ with really high ceilings. What you want to do is inspect every inch of questionably tasteful décor but that would be rude so you follow Roxy and sit down on the IKEA-esque leather couch to which she gestures. You are squinting at a shrine in the corner that appears to be constructed exclusively of Harry Potter paraphernalia surrounding a polaroid photo that you cannot quite make out when Roxy clears her throat.

“Oh, um, sorry, you just – you have such a lovely home.” Roxy fixes you with the same queer look you have seen on Rose’s face when she can smell your bullshit and drapes herself over her overstuffed chair in an overwrought fashion reminiscent of Dave. You would be fascinated if you were not pre-occupied with not staring at the expanse of toned torso complete with belly-button ring peeking out from under Roxy’s tanktop.

You pick at a loose seam on the couch arm and decide for the millionth time that day that this encounter was an awful idea.

“Kanaya, oh my God, I am going to die from all the awkward. Literally. I cannot.”

“Literally?”

“Literally. I am unable to even. Not a single fucking even, Kanaya.”

Roxy summersaults off the side of the chair with such unexpected grace that you are able to quell your urge to dive at her before she breaks her neck. She straightens and waves you down when you make to stand.

“Gymnastics for like a million years. Also, halt. I’ll BRB.”

You halt.

Roxy disappears into what you guess is the kitchen. You slump out of your ramrod posture and trace the flowers on your skirt in lieu of dismantling the upholstery. You try to remember how you had planned to bring up what you wanted to talk about because you had given it extensive thought these past couple of days. You know that you had, and your uncertainty is clouding all that meticulous planning until it is no better than mush. For lack of a better phrasing, _fuck_.

You were here for Dave, of this much you are certain, and you will not allow yourself to walk out that door without talking about him. To Roxy. His older sister that he refuses to talk to or about. About his relationship with whom you’ve decided is a festering boil of a human being. That same relationship that he refuses to talk to you, his best friend, about.

He is going to kill you.

Roxy returns clutching two highball glasses and hands one to you. You automatically thank her before regarding the drink warily. Roxy plops down on the couch next to you.

“One of the grads brought a shitton of mint from his herb garden to the center yesterday. He is way too cute to exist, I swear. Like, this skinny Chinese guy with a family, his wife’s a radiologist, barely speaks English, super brilliant, with an herb garden. Anyway, so I figured since it’s so hot out, we could drink mint juleps and pretend we’re in _The Great Gatsby_. I even turned off the AC and opened a couple windows.” She laughs nervously and adds, “Now that I think about it, though, that last bit might’ve been kinda dumb.”

You consider the drink in your hands, your watch, and finally Roxy who has fixed you with a searching look as if to divine if she has made too severe a miscalculation. You shrug, _fuck it_ , and take a slug of the incredibly strong yet curiously refreshing drink.

Apparently heartened by your acceptance and indulgence in day-drinking, Roxy continues, “If Rosey was here, she’d prob’ly be all ‘the hotel scene with the mint juleps happened at the end of summer to represent some shit about decay and simmering pressure-cookers of plot blah blah it’s May, Roxy, you can’t just appropriate from literature to justify drinking at one in the afternoon.’”

You giggle at Roxy’s hoity-toity impression of Rose.

“I think it is a perfectly apt appropriation, month and multiple affair reveals notwithstanding.”

“Right? I know my high school reading list books, tyvm. Bee tee dubs, is there enough sugar in that?”

You let the acronym abuse slide and take another sip of your drink. “No, it’s quite good. I’ve never had one of these before.”

Things continue in a similar fashion as you try to work up the nerve to bring up Dave: Roxy rambles, you add your thoughts every few paragraphs or so, you drink. You have drifted into a tipsy warmth that may or may not be influenced by the lack of AC when Roxy solves your reticence for you.

“So…” You look up at Roxy’s pause and see her shift to sit cross-legged and facing you with her hands on her knees. “Dave and Gamzee are an offish item now.”

“Apparently,” you bite out with a hint more edge than you had intended.

When you don’t continue, Roxy raises her eyebrows and gives you a “go on” gesture.

“I assume you saw the facebook post. Coincidentally, this is also how I ‘found out’ because Dave has shrouded the entire relationship in secrecy for the last two months.”

“Really? Aren’t you two, like, uber-besties?”

“I thought so. It hurt my feelings, but I had made my peace with the secrecy because it is his life and not mine and he can make his own terrible decisions.”

You had not made your peace with it; you had been pissed. That is neither here nor there.

“However, I have a threshold for the duration and level of terrible for said decisions that I am able to tolerate. And, well, I believe that, as of the last few weeks, this threshold has been thoroughly breached. And before I begin, I want you to know that I do not do all of this lightly because there really is no crime so obnoxious as unwarranted tattling. And it’s not really tattling if it’s important, I think; it’s more like informing. Well, not like informing, that has worse of a connotation than I’m going for here –“

“Kan.” Roxy places a hand on your knee and pats gently. You shut up, biting your lower lip too hard in the process. “I’m gonna need you to get off the ramble-train at the next stop and just cough up whatever it is you’re tryna tell me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. This had been so much easier in your head. You are actively finding that “coughing it up” is akin to passing a soccer ball up your esophagus from the depths of your bowels. If Dave had been privy to that metaphor he would have assuredly declared it “hella weak” and added at least two more bodily functions to complement the implied expectoration.

Dammit, Dave.

This is not about you. This is about Dave.

“It’s abusive,” you blurt, “The relationship. I mean, I think that Dave is in an abusive relationship.”

Roxy is silent, but you feel her grip on your knee tighten. You start to sweat, terrified that she does not believe you, that she thinks you are crying wolf. For attention, or something worse. Oh Christ. Oh no.

“I – I did research. I tried to, at least, I do not know to what extent you can trust information from the internet, but I did try to find sites that were ‘dot edu’ or ‘dot gov’ instead of ‘dot com’ because they tend to be more reliable, but, again, you really cannot tell, And I have never had any real experience with this kind of thing, but there is something so very _wrong_ there and I can’t keep doing nothing.” Your voice raises in pitch, and your breathing quickens, “I’ve been trying not to meddle because I always overstep my bounds, and I do not want Dave to think that I am mothering him because, in my experience, people do not care for that and it just makes everything worse anyway. But if I don’t say anything, then I am being a bad friend, and even worse, Dave is getting hurt!”

You bury your face in your hands and bring your knees to your chest. Oh hell, this is not how this was supposed to go. Here you are getting worked up in front of someone you barely know; there is no way she is going to take you seriously now. You press the heels of your palms into your eyes to staunch the tears threatening to spill. _Get a grip_.

You feel arms wrap around your shoulders. Roxy presses your head into her collarbone and rests her chin atop your hair.

“Hey, girl, deep breaths, it’s gonna be okay.”

For a second, you go rigid with pure shame.

Roxy hugs you tighter and murmurs into your hair, “Hey, shh, let it out. We’re gonna fix this, okay?”

You let it out. The sobs that have been trapped deep in your chest these long, stressful months wrack you with a vengeance. Dave. The end of the year. Your portfolio. Rose. God, you cannot even begin to parse Rose right now. You are at the end of your rope, and until now you have refused to let anyone, least of all yourself, see that.

Roxy, to her credit, whispers soothing nothings and rubs your back. You vaguely think that you will have to make her a batch of cookies to thank her for her patience during this outburst.

With time, your violent tremors subside to hiccups and your breathing returns to something other than unattractive gasps. You pull away from Roxy.

“I, uh…” You trail off, thoroughly abashed, and try to hide your slimy face behind your hand. Roxy tucks a lock of hair behind your ear and smiles so sweetly that you are torn between feeling comforted and overwhelming mortification.

“I’m going to – er – may I use your restroom?” You stand and hurry off in the direction Roxy points. Bathroom located and safely locked, you let out a shuddering breath and chance a look in the mirror. Your eyes look like Christmas, and your skin is hot and blotchy beneath track-marked make-up. You hope that you did not ruin Roxy’s shirt.

After you wash up and give your riled pride a few moments to settle, you exit the bathroom. All you really want to do is hightail it out of this apartment and place as many miles between you and this situation as humanly possible. But, no, you have come all this way, and your inner Dave deadpans for you to “put on your big girl panties, get your shit the fuck together, and act like the bad bitch you are.”

You will do your best, you tell the voice, square your shoulders, and exit the bathroom. Roxy watches you from the couch, her refreshed drink the only evidence that she has moved. You take a deep breath and sit down beside her.

“Sorry about that,” you say. Roxy replies with a loud psshh.

“Don’t be sorry for letting yourself feel your feelings, yo. Shit’s heavy.” She bumps her knee with yours, and it is strangely reassuring. You realize that despite barely knowing her, you are comfortable with Roxy, and if there is anyone that you would be willing to cry in front of, it is her.

“If you’re up to it, you should tell me more about what’s going on. Gotta know what we’re dealin’ with, y’know?”

You nod.

“The first thing was the secrecy, I suppose. Or, at least, what I thought was secrecy. I think that there might be more to it than that. Back when they first started sleeping together, Gamzee started hanging out with us more. They tried to be coy about it, but they were clearly flirting, albeit in this bizarre way. It is difficult to describe. They would insult each other, a bit like banter, I suppose, but not quite. Playful, but darker, more insulting. It set me on edge to see them together. At the time, I chalked it up to jealousy. I wish I had been paying better attention, though, but I was, well, preoccupied.”

“Preoccupied?” Roxy smirks at you.

“I know it is no excuse, but there were midterms to take and projects to complete, and I was working more hours at my part-time job—”

“And doing the nasty on the reg with Rosey, don’t forget that one.”

You sputter, taken aback.

“Whatevs, it’s not like I care, but that is obvs a part of this, and we should def not ignore it as a thing that was slash is happening.”

You sigh, guilt welling up in your chest, “I know.”

“Anyway, go on. The boys were negging each other and it was making you feel gross.”

“Right. Whatever they were doing, it started to shift. I should have caught on earlier, then maybe I might have been able to… Ugh. Nevermind. Anyway, before I knew it, Gamzee was doing all of the teasing, interrupting Dave’s rants, initiating physical contact to make Dave uncomfortable. I should have noticed a correlation between the behavior and Dave starting to consistently ditch me.

“Aside from our shared class, time alone with Dave was at a premium. Whenever I saw Dave, Gamzee would either be there already, or he would quickly show up. Even to my apartment. And I cannot be sure when this happened, but suddenly whenever Gamzee was there, Dave would be, well, Dave would be _quiet_.” Roxy raises her eyebrows at this.

“Quiet like how?”

“Monosyllabic, sitting still, large periods of time silent and staring at the ground.”

“That is not a thing.”

“I swear that is how he was acting.”

“Shit, girl, Dave was not _quiet_ at our Grandma’s funeral. I had to keep him from kickin’ the seat in front of him while Rose held his hands still cause he wouldn’t stop tryna tap out beats.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself. “When was this?”

“Two years ago.”

“Oh my.” You choke down your snort. “I am sorry for your loss.”

It is silent for a moment before you both dissolve into giggles, and the tension in the air ebbs a single, blesséd hair.

“Al’right, so Dave is allegedly quiet and it, understandably, turns you from skeeved out to kinda freaked out.”

“Yes. And this is about the time that Vriska confronts me about Terezi and things begin to get complicated—”

“Hold up. I know Terezi, she’s the hot blind chick with the tongue. Who’s Vriska?”

“Oh, sorry. She is my roommate. She and Terezi have had this queer sort of on-and-off-again relationship for the last two years. You might have met her at Sollux’s party. Tall. Skinny. Long blonde hair with those awful blue highlights. Glasses.”

“Ohhh. That girl. Yeah, I remember she was tryna get everyone to do body shots out of her cleavage.”

You roll your eyes. “Sounds about right. Like she has any to speak of. She eats nothing but gas station burritos and guzzles Mountain Dew and I swear that you could cut glass on that girl’s hipbones.”

Roxy snickers.

“Anyway, Vriska demands to know why Terezi was avoiding her because it apparently involved Dave, a conflict that is not the most unprecedented thing in the world. Dave and Terezi have surprisingly similar sensibilities and the flirtatious nature of their relationship has predictably thrown Vriska into more than a few jealous tantrums. And they are always ridiculous because it is not as if Terezi and Vriska are ever exclusive for more than a few weeks at a time before one of them sleeps with someone else out of spite or self-sabotage, you never can tell with them.”

You pause. You are going off-topic. If allowed, you could go on for days about Terezi and Vriska. And, if you were being honest with yourself, you could opine on the topic of Vriska Serket until you asphyxiated. However, you remind yourself, now is not the time to confront the web of complicated emotions that maintains your distant orbit about your infuriating roommate.

Roxy cranes her neck to meet your gaze that has fixated on a bare expanse of wall. You realize that your pause has dragged on too long. You blink away the fog and try to remember what you were talking about. _Kanaya_ , _focus_.

“Mm, I apologize. So, under regular circumstances, I would have dismissed Vriska’s newest outrage as characteristic overreaction, but there was something different about this one. She seemed genuinely frightened. And not to say that she is never frightened, in fact, I think she is one of the most scared people that I have ever met, but she would rather chew sand than show it outwardly. So she tells me this jumbled story about breaking into Terezi’s apartment and waiting in ambush for 36 hours. And, well, you must understand that I do not endorse Vriska’s methods of problem-solving, and while I will reluctantly concede their occasional effectiveness in gathering information, I maintain that there are surely repercussions that do not justify the means.”

“Jesus, Kanaya, spit it _out_.”

You fret with your hair. “Yes. Right. Well, after the dramatic vigil, Terezi finally came home and Vriska leaped out of the closet, tackled Terezi to the ground, and put her in restraints. I think, under better circumstances, such behavior counts as foreplay for them, but obviously not then. Terezi barely fought back, and when Vriska, well,” you pause, growing hot in your mounting discomfort, “undressed her, she found all kinds of bruises around her hips and thighs. Vriska was very emphatic that these bruises were not her doing, and that the bite-shaped bruises came from two different-sized mouths and that meant that both Dave and Gamzee were biting Terezi hard enough to leave marks, and that must mean that I was conspiring with the three of them to keep this a secret from Vriska.

“I, then, of course, spend the better part of the next hour assuring her that the bruises and the bites are just as much news to me as they were to her. Apparently Terezi told Vriska that whatever and whomever she chose to do was none of her business but kept looking away, I think Vriska said it well, ‘like some guilty dog that just shit on the floor.’ From what I gather, the ensuing interrogation did not turn up much in the way of results. Though, apparently, Terezi started crying and that shocked Vriska so much that she untied her and Terezi took the opportunity to abscond.”

You take a deep breath and look at Roxy who sits with her legs folded beneath her watching you with a perplexed expression.

“Holy shit.”

“Dave has bruises, too. I have not gotten the opportunity to inspect them closely because he hides them and will not let me touch him anymore. I’ve only glimpsed the small ones on his neck, the fingertip-sized ones and the odd, thin ones that go all the way around like cords. And whenever I would ask, whenever I could even see him these last few weeks, he would just dismiss me completely or try to be coy about it. But not in the regular way he is coy about things regarding his sex life. He would never parade his hickeys or what have you, but he would always show them to me and then proceed to deadpan every detail of the encounter. Like chicken, or something equally asinine. To get me to react or whatever his motivation is for anything that he does; you know how ridiculous that boy is.”

Your voice cracks and you notice that your eyes have once again filled with tears.

You chance a look at Roxy. One leg is at her chest, the other bounces erratically. Her expression is a mix of furrowed brows, frowning lips, and flashing eyes that make you uncomfortable. You pick at the couch arm.

After enough heavy silence to choke a yak, Roxy finally speaks in a casual tone:

“I’ll kill the fucker.”

You jolt and stare. Roxy’s gaze is straight ahead and far away. She chews on her lower lip, but you can still see it quiver.

“Shit.”

You watch, paralyzed, as her face crumples, is shoddily schooled back together and, finally, crumples again. No tears fall, but she shakes slightly. You inch closer so that your shoulders touch. You are not excellent at this comforting thing.

Roxy sighs, shakes her head, and turns to you. She looks pained.

“I was close to confronting him about it two days ago,” you begin, cautiously, “when I finally managed to get him alone. I was passing by his apartment and decided to try knocking for the umpteenth time. He was there, alone, but he did not want to let me in. The place was filthy. Well, filthier than usual. I successfully managed to barge in. After a few minutes, everything was almost normal, but Dave was antsy and checking his phone. I tried to bring up Gamzee a few times with little results. Eventually, I became frustrated and demanded to know what the hell was going on. He told me to stay out of his business. I asked to know where the bruises came from. He told me to stay out of his sex life and accused me of being a jealous, clingy hag among other things.”

You sigh. Roxy grabs your hand that has been previously clenching your knee. She is excellent at this comforting thing.

“I wish that I had not lost my temper. Now I fear he will not talk to me again. I need to help him, but I do not know how to do so without making everything exponentially worse. This is the invariable result of my every attempt at meddling in the lives of others.”

Roxy nods. “It’s a tough sitch. Sticky. My instinct is to storm the castle, stomp on some koopas, collect some coinage, knock Bowser into the lava and spirit the princess the fuck outta there. But, hell, you blow in there like that, you make it to the princess only to find that she alley-ooped out the window and she’s hidin’ with Bowser in some other castle across town that’s gonna take a helluva lot more time and effort to storm. Like, we get through a bunch of water levels, and then the same shit happens again and Peach has a shiner and no matter how many times we kill him, shitty Bowser won’t stay shitty dead.”

You follow the metaphor as best you can. You wonder if Terezi is Princess Daisy. You wonder where Princess Daisy came from, if she is a crown-princess, if her kingdom is also fungus-based.

You squeeze Roxy’s hand as you feel her working herself up. You wonder if this is not the first time that she has dealt with this type of situation.

“Shit. So. Have you talked to Rose about any of this?”

You think for a moment, “Not in so much detail. But she seems to know, and it is something of an elephant in the room.”

“Hmm, not like her to not belabor that point ‘til it starts trying to unionize. She must be torn up.”

You shrug. That would be an interesting way to explain her behavior. You should talk to Rose more about topics outside of the third-party.

Roxy lets go of your hand and nudges you with her shoulder, her playful smile not quite reaching her eyes. “You like her, don’t you? Is that why you don’t wanna talk about her?”

You grow hot in embarrassment and quickly cover your face. “I –,” you debate for a moment before opting for honesty. You will probably regret it later, “Yes. I like her quite a lot. I could be falling for her and that is a very uncomfortable situation with which I do not wish to deal because there are other, equally uncomfortably-intertwined situations that are more important.”

“Aw, it’s okay. You have a thing for the Strilondes, no one can blame ya for that. We are super cute. And, by the way, I gotta say that you and Rosey make a hella cute couple.” You groan. Roxy’s grin grows genuine.

“You three can work it out. The twins are gonna have to get over their dumbass angst sometime, and better now than in the pouring rain at Mom’s funeral or somethin’ from an equally shitty indie movie.”

You cannot help but smile back at her. After a few moments of silence, Roxy’s tone grows serious. “Hey, so we still gotta figure out how to get the princess outta the castle.”

“Tactfully.”

“Yeah. I wanna think about it for a little while. You dropped a lot of info on me, and I need a minute to process and cool down before we run in there all guns a’blazin’.”

You nod your agreement.

“I will give you a call tomorrow and we can talk some more about it then?”

“Sounds great. I’ll get my best neurons on it, round ‘em up and get the freeloaders firing on all kindsa solutions.”

The two of you stand up and Roxy pulls you into a tight hug. When you part, her lips are quirked in a half-smile, and her eyes are wet. You squeeze the bicep where your hand rests and she laughs quietly.

“We got this. You don’t have to do everything alone. Keep in touch, girl, okay?”

You nod, and with a final wave of your fingers, exit the apartment. Out in the hallway, you expel a massive sigh. You send out a quick couple of texts, and by the time you make it outside into the deathly heat, you have received the answer you sought.

\--

Two hours later, you lay in bed and stare at the ceiling. You focus on breathing around the lump in your throat. Rose’s head is pillowed on your shoulder, the length of her body pressed against yours as she nods off like a cat in a pool of afternoon sun. It is too hot for this. Your mingled sweat has long-since lost its cooling properties and the thin sheet draped over the two of you plus your combined body heat is stifling.

You swallow the urge to cry and instead twine your fingers with hers where they lay on your hip. She murmurs something that you do not quite make out, and you bury your nose in her soft, blonde hair.


	6. The SweetTart Taste of Ennervated Sweat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, Kanaya has awkward conversations with several people, feelings are reluctantly discussed, and action is taken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Wow, that sure was a lot of time between updates! Lots of stuff has happened! I moved to Turkey, and I teach English here, so that is kind of an okay excuse, I think. Hey, did you guys know that in Turkish, the name Gamze is really common for girls, and it means love? This is hilarious to me. And Terzi is the Turkish version of Libra, so human!Terezi is obviously Turkish, I will brook no argument.
> 
> Anyway, this update is fairly long, and I made a few edits here and there in the previous chapters. I’m thinking that this fic will have either 1 or 2 more chapters before it wraps up, which it will, I promise. And the next update won’t be in December. I double promise.
> 
> Oh, and one last thing, there is some really mild sexual content in this one. So, you know, look out.

You are uncomfortable. You are sitting in the same coffee shop where you took Dave after Sollux’s party four months ago and Terezi Pyrope is staring at you (or a slight bit over your left shoulder) over mirrored glasses the color of freshly-spilled blood. You recognize the action as something picked up from Dave and wonder how it is even possible for a blind person to pick up non-verbal, specifically visual cues. You figure it is probably related to their intimacy – the details of which you are unaware, though based on the circumstances, it must be high – and you are not jealous in the least.

Unwilling to meet her gaze, your eyes dart about her face. Her features are a hodgepodge of Mediterranean, similar to yours, but more European where you wax Arabic. When you had asked Vriska of Terezi’s ancestry, she had replied with an elegant, “Greek or some shit, why do you care?” Further investigation had revealed that she is actually from Turkey which, to Vriska’s credit, is at least within a thousand-mile radius, if not the same continent. As for you, your mother is Iranian and your father, you have been told, was Egyptian.

You had hoped to garner trust with Terezi with your shared experiences both as children of immigrants and your dramatically increased probability for random selection by the TSA. Not to mention your wide circle of shared acquaintances. Instead, you are sitting in crushing silence trying to make sense of the glittery, sticky substance spread across her lips.

You manage to find your voice.

“May I ask what kind of lipgloss you use?”

The glistening lips quirk slightly, and Terezi sits back in her chair.

“Juicy brand, sour appletini flavor. You can find it exclusively at Claire’s Boutique for a limited time only.”

She cackles and you, not getting the joke, chuckle politely.

“I wore it for you. It’s the closest I could get to the taste of your name. I thought of going with the mint chocolate chip, but I chose to gamble on the SweetTart taste of enervated sweat that it turns out rolls off you in waves.” She displays her teeth in a grin that would be dazzling if not for the dripping malice. “I won’t bite, I promise.”

“I am flattered that you thought so far ahead,” you answer, fidgeting with your cup of lukewarm coffee, “and you must forgive me if I come across as rude. I am always a bit shy around new friends. Though it is strange that we have not become better acquainted by this point.”

“Oh? And why is that?” Terezi steeples her fingers like a freaking Bond villain, clearly enjoying how easy you are to make uncomfortable. You are not impressed. You put on a serious face.

“Well, if you haven’t noticed, we have, over the years, developed a penchant for sharing not only the most important people in our lives but a tacit agreement to remain nothing more than the most casual of acquaintances. Due to circumstances of which I cannot imagine you to be unaware, I find that perhaps it would be best to breach this agreement and kindle if not a friendship, at least a working relationship.”

Terezi leans forward again, places a hand on her forehead, and sighs.

“Oh Kanaya, I knew that it was only a matter of time before our mutual, unadulterated love of the Ampora brothers brought us to blows.”

It is silent for a beat. And then another. Finally, your stony face cracks and Terezi bursts into another cackle. You cannot help but join her.

While her magnetism does not quite work on you, you can perhaps see what Dave and Vriska see in that saw-toothed visage. She is easy to dislike, almost pleasurably so, but the dislike stops just short of hatred as you realize, almost with a start, that this is nothing more than a massive joke to her. You realize that Terezi Pyrope is incapable of taking herself seriously, or anyone for that matter. You muse that she is always searching for someone or something to believe in, a glint of truth in the sick joke of existence. Pity creeps into your annoyance.

You force this over-analysis out of your head. After all, you barely know the girl. She is probably just obnoxious.

As the laughter dies away, you swiftly return to the offensive.

“Have you seen Dave recently?”

You watch carefully for a reaction and receive none, not even an errant twitch of the finger.

“I have.”

“How is he?”

“Intact.”

You blink. “Intact?”

“Yes.”

“As in?”

“As in intact.”

“Oh, of course.”

“Each supple limb accounted for, not a ligament out of place – in spite of my best efforts.” She grins again.

“I see.”

Terezi gasps. “Language! I’m sensitive, you know”

“What? Oh, right, sorry.” You blush, embarrassed and frustrated. You opt for a new tactic.

“Where are you from?”

“Detroit.”

You pull a face before you can stop yourself. You have been to Detroit once on the way to visit a distant cousin in Dearborn. It had been an ill portent properly suited to what had turned out to be a disastrous visit.

“My parents are not from Detroit if that is what you meant to ask.”

“That is not what I meant to ask, but I did plan on asking it in the near future. Your precognition is quite impressive.”

“Your mind is my greasy Chinese buffet, your memories and future plans the crab rangoon clutched between my chopsticks.” She clicks her teeth together in a vague approximation of chopsticks. Or perhaps she is trying to intimidate you.

“Vivid. So?”

“So, what? Do you even social interaction, bro?”

“Uh huh. Where are your parents from?”

“Turkey.”

“Which city?”

“Izmir.”

“Where is that?”

“Turkey.”

Your fists clench on your knees. Terezi smiles serenely.

“Do you speak Turkish?

“Evet. Turkçe konuşuyorum. Sen biliyormisun?”

“I’m afraid that I do not know Turkish.”

She laughs, winks at you over her glasses. “Çok ayıp. Do you know Farsi?”

“A little. My mother did not want us learning it and maintained an English-only household growing up. My sister knows it far better than I do.

“Mm. Self-loathing immigrant, or is the ‘Murica just that strong in her?”

“Neither.” With anyone else, you would explain your mother’s complicated feelings regarded her emigration, but Terezi has put you on guard. Perhaps another time.

“What’s your major?”

“Do you really not know?”

“I know that it is either Pre-Law or English. My source is unreliable.”

“Incorrect.”

“Then what is it?

“Either.”

“What?”

“I’m a double major.” She cackles.

“Is your minor in pedantry?”

“Linguistics.”

“A simple ‘yes’ would have sufficed.”

“Touché.”

“How is Dave?”

“Unhappy.”

“Why?”

Her brows tighten above her grin. “He is a moody little bird come to roost.”

“And you?”

“I’m an albatross.” She flaps her arms in a weak imitation of wings. (link)

“Around whose neck?”

“Excellent question! But I am very much alive, though, for now, grounded.”

“Why?”

“I am wary of crusty sailors with crossbows. God save thee, Ancient Maryam.” She pauses, frowns. “Besides, my wings are heavy.”

“And Dave?”

“Clipped.”

You bite your lip, drop the metaphor.

“Please let me help you.” You touch her hand where it rests on the table. It is clammy.

She seems to genuinely consider your plea for a few moments. However, you know that you have lost whatever ground you had gained when her spine straightens and that harlequin grin returns.

“I’m afraid you lost me there with your fancy rhetoric. Thank you for the coffee, my dear Miss SweetTart.”

She stands up to leave and you fumble with your bag.

“Wait!” You shove a piece of paper into her hand. “That’s my phone number. Call me anytime. We can talk about birds or Romantic poets or whatever.”

Terezi laughs. “Did you seriously just hand a blind girl your – is that braille?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.” Frowning slightly, she exits the café.

Five minutes later, feeling as if you have accomplished a metric ton of jack shit, follow her out. You don your shades and walk into dazzling sun.

\--

“I had a dream last night.” You crouch down, scanning a patch of clover for an aberrant four-leaf.

“Were we all in the Matrix?” Roxy tosses a stone into the lake. It skips once and sinks.

“No.”

“Oh. I had one like that last week. What was yours about?”

“Lots of things, lots of people.”

“Wow, Kan, I don’t know where to start. With all this info you’re feeding me, this psychoanalysis is probs gonna take all night.” She flicks another stone. One skip.

“Oh hush. It’s just that it was a bit, well, surreal and gory, and I want to frame this so as to avoid the label of psychopath and a well-meaning trip to the mental health clinic.”

“Pff.” Flick. One skip. “Girl, it’s gonna take more than one funky dream to get me doubting your sanity. What’d you do? Drown a baby surrounded by clowns and Guy Fieri?”

“No.”

“I had that two nights ago. It was so uncool.” Flick. No skip. Sink.

“I cut Gamzee in half with a chainsaw.”

“Oh yeah? Hamburger or hotdog?”

You move to a different patch. “Hamburger. And his blood was the loveliest shade of indigo. Everyone had differently-colored blood, actually. The colors make a weird sort of sense even now. My blood was dark green, emerald, but a bit darker, more like spinach. Sollux was this mustard-yellow. Eridan was violet, like a plum. There were a few others that I cannot remember, but the colors were navy blue, olive green, and pink-ish purple. No, wait, it’s called tyrian purple.”

“Damn girl, keep away from you and your landscaping tools.”

You pick a clover only to find it had deceived you with three leaves and an artful beam of sunlight. “I only killed Gamzee. And maybe Eridan. Gamzee killed the others. At least I thought so at the time, and I was very displeased with the fact. I think I also kicked him in the crotch. That is not the point, I think. Gamzee did not stay dead. We were in space on this satellite thing, and my drawing professor calmed Gamzee down by petting him and kept me from killing him again. You were there, too.”

“What color was my blood?”

“I don’t know. Your eyes were pink, though. Like cotton candy. You were mostly floating around and watching. Or you were asleep. Both, maybe. The dream was non-linear. Rose was there. I was worried about her because she was drunk. Or she was trying to kill herself, and no matter what I said, I couldn’t stop her. Dave was there. He was everywhere, but he was dead. Dead Dave’s all over the place like leaves in the fall.”

You pause and finally pluck a four-leaf clover from the ground. Your smile is triumphant.

“There was also some incredibly convoluted storyline that I could barely follow. It did not make much sense, and I do not think that it turned out well for anyone.”

Roxy turns to you, arm poised to chuck another rock into the lake. If she wants the rock to skip more than once, you think, she needs to loosen her wrist. “Hmm, that is quite the dream. Do you want my totes profesh opinion?”

“That is why I am spread out on this couch, doctor.” You gesture to the rock upon which you have planted yourself with your bounty.

“First off, are you hungry? All your blood descriptors were, like, food-based. But getting down to business (to defeat the Hunsssss), all of the dead bodies represent dicks. Gamzee, the biggest dick of them all. You cut him in half because dick envy. The stuff with Rose and me is about wanting to bang your mom. Oh, and the food-blood? Also dicks. Dead Dave’s? Dead dicks. Dead Dave dicks.”

“A truly brilliant analysis, doctor, I think that I am 100 percent cured of my dick-phobia thanks to the efforts of your esteemed colleagues and yourself.”

“The trick is to talk about them constantly. The only way to cure anyone of anything is to slap ‘em in the face with a billion dicks. Me and Doc DiStri developed that modal with research and it is totes patented. The article is peer-reviewed and e’rrythang, helly respected by the APA.”

You both laugh. You wonder who Doc DiStri refers to. Is that Bro? What was his real name? Roxy wings a rock into lake. It skips once and sinks. You approach with a few flat, round stones and proceed to flick them one by one into the lake. The first skips thrice, the second four times, and the third five times.

“Show-off.”

You place a stone in Roxy’s hand and curl her forefinger around its circumference.

“Now turn like this. Good. Now, the motion starts in your shoulder and ends at the tip of your forefinger.” You tap each joint in her arm, dimly realizing how close your bodies are, wondering if this is inappropriate. “It is like water down an incline. Like this.” You run her through the motion a couple times and have her toss a couple rocks. “Torque your hips a bit more.” After some practice, she manages a two-skip, some three-skips, and even a four-skip.

She turns to you, elated and babbling her thanks, and wraps her arms around your neck. When she pulls away from the hug, she gives your cheek a pinch and skips off to collect more stones.

You smile.

 

\--

 

“So.”

You look up from your book to the source of the noise. You gaze at Rose whose eyes are still locked on the book in front of her. You watch as she continues underlining some piece of text. When she begins to make a note in the margin, you begin to suspect yourself of auditory hallucinations.

You make it through another paragraph and an indecipherable marginal note – Rose annotates all of her books, and you are endeavoring to become more well-read. However, and you haven’t the gall to admit it yet, you are finding Jane Austen nothing short of insufferable. You miss _Wuthering Heights_ , but you are fairly certain that such a statement would not be well met by your sort-of-probably-at-this-point-what-else-would-she-even-be girlfriend – before you are pulled away by another noise, this time that of a book slapping closed and a wooden chair creaking. Footsteps approach. This time, you do not look up.

You know what comes next.

Her lips trail from your collarbone to your jawline as her hands run slowly down your sides. You turn your head to kiss her proper, but she tsks and gently headbutts you away. This is a bit of a change in the routine, but not an unwelcome one. She slips in between you and the back of the chair, continues her ministrations languidly, and you feel yourself growing warm.

You catch a glance of the two of you in a mirror across the room. Rose’s face is contorted into a scowl, not the scowl she wears while reading, but a different, angrier version. You cool down a bit despite the hand massaging your breast.

“Rose?”

No answer. A hand creeps under the waistband of your skirt and you bite your lip.

“Darling?”

No answer. When she touches you, you are reminded that you are already halfway there and your vision blurs for a moment. Her breath is hot in your ear, and you make a last-ditch effort to regain control of the situation.

“How is your rereading of _Jane Eyre_ coming?”

She pauses.

You gulp. “Don’t you find the sadomasochistic implications of Jane and Mr. Rochester’s relationship fascinating?”

She pulls her lips from your neck and, in the corner of your eye, you see her turn to stare at you incredulously.

“It is a complete reversal of their societal roles. The agency that has been systematically denied Jane is offered to her by her upper-class employer. The thing that I found most interesting was that his loss of agency was subtle and subverting. He could never subjugate her mind, and she would rather suffer in the cold than allow him to control her through economic means. It was quite the departure from her initial time with her aunt and cousins where she was othered not only socially, but economically and physically as well. Yet, in the end, the control she, albeit unwillingly, exerts over him is able to affect him equally on all three vertices.”

You lick your lips, your loins burning, but you seem to have achieved your goal.

“Kanaya?”

“Yes?

“Why are you quoting the thesis of my 19th Century British Literature midterm paper at me?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about. I simply want to discuss Charlotte Bronte’s timeless novel that not only presents the social and economic pressures of Victorian England but also delves deep into the psyche of a complicated and altogether human woman.”

Rose extricates herself from between you and the chair.

“The inversion of outward presentations of class and personal relationships between men and women was quite interesting.”

The muddled confusion on her face has been replaced with a vague annoyance.

“And what of the madwoman of color locked in the attic? That must be incredibly important, though I was unable to get much deeper than a physical representation of the repression of Victorian women.”

Rose finally responds, reluctantly, “Said ‘madwoman of color’ will be featured prominently in my honors thesis.”

“Oh, really!”

“It is hardly that exciting. If I am being completely honest with myself – or if my advisor had the modicum of moxie required to put me in my place – the analysis thus far is trite and reeks of undergraduate ennui.”

“You are too hard on yourself.”

Rose stares at you, unblinking. You hate when she does this. You can practically feel her picking through your thoughts as if they were a candy dish, and she was searching for an errant M&M. You bear it with only a slight hunch to your shoulders.

Eventually, Rose rises, a slight smile on her face that does not reach her eyes. “Would you care for some tea?”

“Yes, please.”

She disappears into the kitchen, and you wring your hands. She is furious with you. This much you can tell. This is not the kind of anger that is really about something else but ends up directed at you. Rose is good about catching herself when she begins to do that; her nigh-dangerous tendency for introspection does have its perks every now and again. No, this one is all you, and you are not sure why, though you have your suspicions.

You have until the kettle boils and the three to seven minutes it will take the tea to steep depending on what type of leaf, oh god you hope it is oolong. Rose conducts psychological warfare like Ayn Rand plays monopoly. Her words are Agent Orange and you are trapped in a trench. She really does look amazing in orange, you think, she should wear it more. You wish she would let you dress her. You have repeatedly explained that it is not because you think that she is incompetent at the most simple tasks, but honestly a wardrobe almost entirely black and purple is hardly a wardrobe at all.

The kettle whistles. _Focus, soldier_.

You smooth your skirt and remember that your hair is probably rumpled beyond repair. In the mirror, you manage to flick it into a semblance of not-sex-hair. Appearances are important with Rose; they are a source of power. Dave has similar ideas, though more obsessive and defensive.

Oh Dave.

You shake the spiraling line of thought that is Dave Strider from your head just as Rose re-enters with two steaming cups of tea. On saucers. Oh God.

“I hope that you don’t mind that I took the liberty of sweetening your tea for you. In these halcyon months, I pray that I have at the very least gleaned that much.”

You take a sip. It burns your mouth, and it is cloyingly sweet. She, of course, knows not only that the tea is too hot, but also that you only take one sugar. You smile and choose what you hope is the correct answer. “It is lovely, thank you.”

She sips delicately at her own tea. “How are you liking _Emma_? Has the eponymous Miss Woodhouse struck any particular fancy with you?”

You attempt a blitz. “She is horrible, and I hate her. While I acknowledge the obvious satire of pre-Victorian sitting-room culture, that fact alone is not enough to overcome my dislike of the protagonist. Perhaps I am too plebian for Austen.” You sip at your tea and take extra care not to pull a face.

Rose’s eyebrows raise; you have scored a point.

“Do not give up yet. I think that _Persuasion_ will suit you far better. I believe that you will relate quite strongly to Anne Eliot and not in the fashion that makes Emma Woodhouse so odious.”

It takes you a moment to decipher the subtle barb. It is in this moment that you decide that you will not endure this horseshit a second longer. You down the rest of your tea, effectively singeing off the last of your tastebuds, set the cup in the saucer, and lay the saucer on the table. Rose watches you, interested.

“Rose.”

“Kanaya.”

“I do not want to talk about Jane Austen anymore.”

“Perhaps a Bronte then? Any of them will do, even Anne if you are so inclined.”

“You are angry with me.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You are angry with me. Why are you angry with me?”

Rose look surprised, or as surprised as she ever chooses to look. You have never been this direct. You do not like to be direct. It makes you uncomfortable. You are, however, nettled with the fact that Rose implied (completely correctly) that the reason that you hate Emma is because you relate to her worst qualities.

“Why have you been spending so much time with my sister?”

The look of surprise on your face is surely more overt than the one on hers when she answers your direct question with what may not be quite a direct answer, but at least a question devoid of artful obfuscation.

You do not know what to say. Is Rose jealous?

“We are friends. She is… nice.”

Rose stares at you again. You blink and come to a revelation. It tumbles thus.

“She reminds me of Dave. She is, well, more free with herself than he is. She makes me laugh, soothes my nerves the Dave did before he – before he – well. I miss him, and I am scared, and I can’t talk about this with you. I want to, oh God, but we cannot for some secret reason that I am not allowed to know nor am allowed to ask about. So I go about trying to see about Dave, and it is all so surreptitious and ridiculous and there is nothing I can do. I am so powerless. He won’t talk to me, he is never going to talk to me again, and that bastard is allowed to do whatever he goddamn well pleases because it is _none of my business_. I can blame him to kingdom come because he is the obvious antagonist here, but I still blame myself. That night at the party, that night that we got together, that is when it all started. And I like you _so much_ , Rose, but I needed to be there for him. I could have kept him away, or maybe he never would have gotten dragged down if I hadn’t given him a reason to go away. But I chose, and I chose _you_ and I do not regret it, but why did I have to choose? Rose, why did I have to choose?”

You clasp a hand over your mouth. You are standing, yelling at Rose, who gazes at you, brows furrowed and mouth open in a slight “o.” She stands up and pulls you into a hug. Your breathing is quick, your eyes burn, but you do not cry. You cannot cry about this anymore. More importantly, you cannot cry in front of Rose. You press your face into her neck, grinding your teeth. She rubs your back and makes shhshing noises, but you can feel how stiff she is against you.

You pull away, bite your lip.

“I –”

“Kanaya.”

“I did not mean to imply that this business with Dave is in any way your fault.”

“I know.”

“It is just that – everything hurts.”

“I know. Kanaya, I—”

“I don’t know how to make everything okay. This is what I do. I make things okay. Why can I not make this okay?”

“I love you.”

Everything grinds to a halt.

“What?” Inelegant, it is all you can think to say.

“I love you,” she repeats, her expression caught somewhere between adoration and eating a spoonful of cinnamon.

The longer you pause, the more her face falls. It is just about to morph back into stone when you finally remember how to speak.

“I love you, too.”

\--

Hours later, you are still reeling. Rose and you sit in her bedroom ostentatiously ignoring the outburst of emotion from earlier that day. You are playing tag with shy glances, and it is ridiculous. You have been reading the same page for twenty minutes. Not to mention that the dying light is making it incredibly difficult to make out the words on the page. Of course, neither of you is capable of turning on a lamp. That would be far too reasonable.

Rose sighs, closes her book. You look up, curious.

“I am going to do something.”

“Oh, of course. That merits no questions whatsoever.”

She laughs, nervously if you did not know any better.

“I am going to call my brother.”

You blink.

“What?”

She smiles, sincerely, and leaves the room. You wait a suitable thirty seconds and trip over yourself in a rush to the door to press your ear to it.

There is silence for a few moments, and then, to your shock, a conversation begins. The tones are too low for you to make out but that does not stop you from salvaging a water glass and attempting to amplify them. You do not care how silly you look. Eventually, you give up and sink to the floor with your head resting on the wood. The conversation continues in the same hushed tones for what seems like hours but is really only one.

Rose hangs up the phone and you scramble back onto the bed and attempt to look nonchalant. You cannot imagine that you are very convincing.

Rose reenters the room, cheeks flushed and lips firmly set.

“I need to go.”

You spring up, but Rose shakes her head.

“I need to go alone.”

“No,” you say firmly, “I am coming with you.”

“Kanaya, please trust me. I cannot explain right now, but I think that this will work. I need to see my brother.”

You either sit or fall back onto the bed. Rose kisses you, runs her thumb over your cheekbone. You gaze at her, forlorn. She rests her forehead on yours and murmurs that she will be back soon. Eventually you loosen your grip on her forearm and she slips away. Right before she closes the door, you choke out, “I love you.”

She smiles at you and closes the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made Terezi speak some Turkish because I am the worst.  
> Evet. Turkçe konuşuyorum. Sen biliyormisun?” = Yes. I speak Turkish? Do you know it?  
> Çok ayıp = For shame (sort of, it’s a funny little expression)


	7. Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dave's back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. Remember me?

You wait in Rose’s home for at least seventeen years. During this time you perform a series of very important tasks: you wander from room to room (there are two rooms), you reorganize Rose’s glasswear (first by function, then by size), you fold Rose’s laundry (you would have ironed it had she owned an iron), and you certainly neither check your phone every few seconds nor bite your cuticles.

You have popped a bleeding forefinger into your mouth when you hear the door open. In an effort to not appear like an excited dog whose master has just returned from work, you remain seated on Rose’s bed. You hear the murmur of voices and stand up. With an ease that appears more along the lines of a steel rod up your ass, you make your way to the door and lean on the threshold.

Dave and Rose are in the kitchen, their backs to you. You hear Rose flip on the coffee maker. She opens a cupboard to retrieve cups and pauses. Dave turns around to lean against the counter when he spots you staring. He freezes, looks at you, looks at the threshold, and an eyebrow quirks over his shades. You stand up straight.

The two of you gaze awkwardly at each other before Rose looks over her shoulder at you.

“Did you rearrange my cabinets?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask why?”

 _I was nervous and this activity was more constructive than vomiting for three hours_.

“They were disorganized. Every time you cook or look for mugs, it is a ten-minute manhunt for a single saucepan. Imagine what you can do with this fresh bank of saved time.”

“Is that from an infomercial?”

“I shoulda warned you, man. Don’t let Kanaya near HSN or she’ll Martha Stewart the fuck outta your kitchen. Girl hears Billy Mays shoutin’ about how wait there’s more and she takes it as a bonafide challenge.”

You nearly get whiplash from how quickly you turn to face Dave. You had expected his voice to sound different, though you are not sure how. Perhaps it should have been more gravelly, smaller maybe. He is, in fact, mostly unchanged, and you realize how ridiculous it would be to think otherwise. He is not wasted away, he is not covered in bruises and cigar burns from spilling paint in the garage, his shoulders are not stooped in defeat; he is the same beanpole, slightly hunched, pasty boy he has always been.

Rose pours three cups of coffee. Without asking, she sweetens yours – properly this time – and hands it to you. She and Dave share a silent gaze that you think might be a creepy twin thing. Rose plops in four sugars and half a cup of milk and hands the saccharine concoction to Dave. Rose takes her coffee with a splash of milk.

Nobody moves. You sip your coffee; it is too hot. Your mouth is already the consistency of an old tire, so you take another. Rose hoists herself onto the counter in a move that you recognize as an attempt to put herself at ease. She likes to perch.

Five minutes pass. You are nauseous. Dave makes eye contact. You hold it. Ever so slowly, his lips begin to part. Your eyes widen. His tongue pushes through the opening. Your face contorts into a grimace.

Suddenly, you are doubled over laughing hysterically. Juicy, gasping laughs rip from you and before you know it, tears and mucus are streaming down your face. Dave is on the ground snickering, the familiar chuckle music to your ears. Rose looks on in confusion.

After several moments, the two of you manage to contain yourselves. Yet, the second you glance at Dave’s face, you dissolve into another bout of laughter, and he spits out the coffee he was finally tasting. This time the both of you end up on the kitchen floor lightly shoving each other. Rose looks slightly aghast.

Once you calm down again, you finger the coffee stain on Dave’s white tee shirt and tsk.

“Give me your shirt. We need to treat it before it’s ruined.”

“Damn, girl. Tryna get me out my clothes already, I’ve only been here ten minutes. Maybe turn on the Netflix before we chill? I ain’t no whore.”

“Oh my God.”

“Besides.”

“What?”

“This shirt came from a bag, and to a bag it shall return. Shit’s in the Bible. I accept the casualty. Needs of the many, the coffee wars are hell, man, hell.”

“Is that string of clauses supposed to have some sort of meaning?”

“Yeah.”

You shove him again.

Rose claps her hands and slips off the counter. “Let’s watch a movie.”

“Kay.”

Ten minutes, a bowl of popcorn, and one awkward stand-off of who was to sit whence later, the three of you are arranged on the couch.

The weight in your chest is not gone. Nevertheless, for a moment you are able to ignore your choking dread and entwine your fingers with Rose’s while Dave’s knee bobs rhythmically against yours.

\--

“Kanaya, omg, I am having the best idea. Right now, it’s happening, the bestest idea evar is working its way through my noggin.”

Roxy is slurring; you somehow doubt the brilliance of whatever is to follow. Regardless, you sit back in your chair, thank whomever that she cannot see you roll your eyes from over the phone, and reply, “Do tell, darling.”

“Have you seen ‘Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf’?”

“I have not.”

“Me neither, but get this, it is next on my Netflix queue and it’s gonna be on its way here in three to five business days, girl, I know you know what this means!”

“I do not.”

Roxy screams and drops the phone. After some scuffling and cursing, she returns with a clear of the throat.

“Shit, sorry, there was some drama. As I was saaaayyying ‘fore I was so ruuudely interrupted: DINNER PARTY!”

“Dinner party?”

“Kanaya. Dinner party.”

“Are we going to watch the movie at the dinner party?”

“Uh, no. Why would you even ask, you eat dinners at dinner parties not watch old, boring movies. Duh, Kanaya.”

“Right, of course. What could I possibly be thinking?”

“Chyeah. Anyway, what were we talkin’ about?”

“Good question.”

“Dinner party! Yeah! Two weeks from this moment. I mean it. Sync your watch and your phone and your mama’s TV set ‘cause it’s goin’ down like James Brown.”

You doubt that the dinner party will start – or transpire at all – at noon on a Wednesday, but stranger things have happened, so you make a quick note on your calendar to the effect of “Potential Dinner Party Wherein I Will Inevitably Do All Cooking and Subsequent Clean-Up.”

“All right, electronics synced and schedules dutifully cleared.”

Roxy does not reply. There is rustling on the other end.

“Roxy?”

Nothing.

“Roxy!”

This time, Roxy returns. “Kanaya, the drama up in this public park is Mach 10 and a half. There are, like, four dogs, Kanaya.”

“Four?”

“Four.”

“Amazing. Are we still on for hanging out later?

“LOL, yeah!”

\--

Lo and behold, two weeks pass and you are in Roxy’s kitchen chopping onions. When tears prick at your eyes, you run your wrists under the tap and sigh several times.

You are not sure how you feel about the approaching evening. On one hand, you are excited that all of your favorite people will be under the same roof. On the other hand, all of your favorite people will be under the same roof. It will be like Thanksgiving. This is also a terrifying thought. You drop the onions into a bowl and begin on the garlic.

There is a crash in the next room, and your knife slips. You and Roxy shout simultaneous obscenities, and you throw your bleeding thumb under cold water.

You yell, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah!”

Roxy is already tipsy. You go on a quest for band-aids. On the way, you pass Roxy in the living room picking up the remains of a potpourri dish and its contents.

“Kan, are you sure I gotta dust this place? It looks fine! Wait, hey, did you cut yourself?”

“I am perfectly okay, dear. Are your band-aids in the bathroom?”

Roxy has already disappeared by the time you finish the question. You find band-aids in a bathroom drawer. Before returning to the kitchen, you straighten the two wall hangings, blow the dust off of the candles, run your hands through your hair.

Everything is going to be fine.

Rose arrives thirty minutes later. You are in the kitchen squinting through the oven window at a tray of bread when a pair of arms wraps around your waist. You nearly leap out of your skin.

“Jumpy, love?”

“A little.”

“What about this farcical tableau has you in such hysterics? Is it the conspicuous absence of communication from my brother for the last 24 hours or the supine position of my sister upon the couch? I must say, she invokes our mother so well that I am beginning to feel a twinge of nostalgia.”

“You are not making me feel any better.”

“Apologies. So, where’s the roast?”

“I decided against it. Firstly, I do not know how to cook one. Secondly, I am not an unfulfilled New England housewife trying to seduce my husband’s business partner’s wife.”

“Oh, but Midge Gladstone has been looking ever so ravishing since her trip to the Islands.”

“That was Mexico, darling, and she got a nosejob. You can see the scar. If you are interested, I am sure she would be willing to participate in an illicit affair. I see the way she touches your sleeve at parties.”

Rose kisses the tip of your nose. “Yours is the only nose for me. Thank goodness we bought domestic.”

You both laugh.

“Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to shore myself up for a lovely evening.”

Rose produces a decently-sized bottle of red wine from seemingly nowhere and goes on the hunt for a corkscrew. When you produce it for her on the first try, she gives you a look that indicates that there is something not nice on her mind, but she is instead opting to say nothing at all.

You appreciate the effort.

The oven beeps, and you take out the bread. It has been awhile since you’ve had the motivation to bake bread – let alone bread from your childhood – from scratch, and you vow not to lapse again.

You take a deep inhale and are transported approximately a decade into the past. It is a brutally hot summer afternoon. All of the windows and doors in your fifth floor apartment are thrown open to coax through any hint of breeze. The constant cacophony of traffic mixes with your mother’s tape of Iranian music. You would prefer Britney Spears.

 You take a glob of dough from the bowl and roll it out with a heavily-floured pin.

“Not so much, love, it will not be so soft if you flatten it so much.” Your mother looks at you over her shoulder from her place at the stove.

Despite your mother’s gentle tone, you feel the heat of shame creep across your chest and up your neck. Usually, Porrim rolls out the dough for lavash. Today, she is next to you chopping vegetables for salad; she spares your work a glance and rolls her eyes. Your sister and mother have been fighting a lot lately, and the tense silences have been making you more nervous than usual. Even worse, Porrim talks to you less every day, and you feel like you’re losing your best friend. They fight about weird stuff, too. You definitely agree that Porrim shouldn’t smoke, but you aren’t sure what matters about what she wears to school. When they get too loud, you usually go sit in the bathroom and hyperventilate.

You try to watch your sister without her noticing. She is tall and thin but also curvy, and you wish you could be half as beautiful as her even when she’s sweaty and her hair is in a messy ponytail and she isn’t wearing make-up and her clothes don’t match.

Eventually, she catches you staring and mumbles a dour, “What?”

You look away, cheeks burning. “Nothing.”

You roll out the rest of the dough extra-carefully.

That night, you are brushing your teeth when you hear the front door open and close. Porrim must be back from her date. You listen carefully to the conversation between her and your mother, tuned in for anything out of the ordinary. You aren’t kept waiting long. The hushed tones escalate into phrases like “breaking my heart,” and “shame.” From Porrim you catch “fascist” and “own me.” You listen for a while, paralyzed, but when you hear your mother call your sister a whore, you manage to come to yourself enough to spit out your toothpaste.

Eventually, they finish and you hear stomping and a slammed door. You tell yourself to calm down which works about as well as it always does – poorly – but you do manage to exit the bathroom in only a few minutes.

You have to pass the living room on the way to your shared bedroom with Porrim, and you catch a glimpse of your mother sitting on a cushion on the ground. Her face and eyes are stone; she doesn’t look at you. You open your bedroom door, and you see Porrim curled up on her bed. The occasional sniffles give away that she is indeed crying. You want desperately to crawl in next to her and pet her hair until she stops, but you know that she’d be mad if you tried, so you get into your own bed and try unsuccessfully to sleep. When you finally start to drift off, you hear a small, “Kanaya? Are you awake?”

Unsure if you are dreaming or not, you respond, “Yeah?”

“Look, uh. I’m… well. I don’t… Fuck, I wish I had my own room.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, dammit, it’s not your fault. It’s just…” She sniffs and is quiet for a long time while your heart races.

“Porrim?”

“Nevermind, Kanaya. Good night.”

“Good night.”

You are startled back into Roxy’s apartment by the sound of knocking. Your heart clenches, but before you can run to the door to check if it is indeed Dave, another timer beeps, and you instead take the rice off the stove and transfer it into a serving dish. You do the same with the bubbling curry.

As you toss the salad, you realize that you’ve managed to pull this off without setting the place on fire which was hardly a rational concern – you are a decent cook – but one that did factor into your dreams the previous night.

You take a deep breath and go into the living room to announce that dinner is served. Rose watches, bemused, as Roxy aggressively presents Dave a nicely wrapped box.

“Rox, it’s not my birthday.”

“It is totally your birthday. I checked and everything.”

You sit next to Rose who offers you a sip of her wine. You accept it and remark, “Your birthdays are not for another six months.”

“Astute observation.”

Dave glances in your direction for any sort of hint, and you nod hoping to indicate that the contents are safe, so he takes the box and unwraps it. Inside is the shirt that Roxy consulted with you on for a “giving a present because I love him, but it needs to be ironic and also I gotta give it to him ironically, why does Dave have to be such a complicated asshat, Kanaya?” early birthday gift. After much deliberation, you had settled on a [heinous](http://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/1091/9154/products/1800_Drake_Pink_1024x1024.jpg?v=1456765518) t-shirt.

Dave stares at the shirt for a while, and then a smirk peeks out from the neutrality.

“Ah man, happy birthday to me. You know how I love heartwarming tales of Drake gettin’ all butthurt cause his side chick doesn’t booty call him anymore.”

Roxy tries to get Dave to take his shirt off then and there and put on the new one. You quickly interject, “Dinner is ready!”

You catch Dave breathe a sigh of relief, and to his credit, he does go to the bathroom and change.

\--

“And dear sister, when is the last time _you_ had anything resembling a functional relationship with another living human being? And not just a computer program capable of mimicking human cynicism?”

Roxy rubs her neck, “Aw come on, Rosie, y’know that’s not what I meant—“

“Then what, pray tell, the fuck did you mean?”

“I was just—“

“You were just _what_?”

Rose stands with her palms flat against the table. Her chin is lowered, and the glare that she levels in Roxy’s direction has moved past withering and firmly into the territory of immolation-induction. The hand you had tried to soothingly place on her knee five minutes earlier had been tersely denied, and you are afraid to try again. You think that you can almost see black tendrils of rage curling from her shoulders.

Empty dishes line the table.

“You were just _what_?” Rose repeats, and Dave groans loudly.

“Jesus, Rose, fucking chill. You know she didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Regardless of whether she meant anything or not, the fact is that it was implied that while my lifestyle choices are my own, perhaps they would be better dictated by someone who consumes vodka as if they are seeking professional sponsorship. If I sought that kind of passive aggressive horseshit, I would simply hop on a plane to New York and see if I am able to rouse my mother from her evening repose face-down and drooling on the kitchen floor.”

“Leave Mom the fuck alone. At least she’s trying.”

“She’s been ‘trying’ for 20 years! She was ‘trying’ when she disappeared for three days and came home with vomit on her Chanel bag and a black eye in the middle of a blizzard. She was ‘trying’ when she put her hand down my 6th grade science teacher’s pants because she wanted to know if there was a volumetric flask in his pocket or if he was just happy to see her.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Dave, she missed our commencement because she fell asleep in the parking lot in that vile pink convertible. You were there for that one unlike all the others. You weren’t around for it. You were with our father in fucking Texas while that woman lurched through what I suspect was an already lax philosophy on child-rearing.”

“Look, growing up with Bro—“

“Why do you two call him that? Why the do you allow him to dictate the narrative of our fucked-up manor novel of a life? The man took his infant son across the country and left his equally-infant daughter and stepdaughter in the stellar care of their alcoholic mother. What were you two doing down there?”

“It fucking sucked, Rose. Okay? What do you want me to say? That it was peaches and cream and Tony Hawk and man-to-man talks about how to stand up to that bully on the playground taking my lunch money, just stand up to him, son, and win his respect? Is that it? Do you want an excuse why you’re so fucked up so you can say I have no right to be fucked up, too?”

“You don’t—“

Dave stands, mimicking Rose’s stance from across the table. With his increased height, he all but towers over her.

“Oh wait! Maybe you want me to say he molested me. That’s what you've always thought, right? That’s why Dave is such a fucking failure cause his Daddy touched his no-no parts! That’s why Dave fucks dudes that treat him like shit cause he wants Daddy to love him. Maybe he knocked me around a little, but he never touched me, Jesus, why are you like this? Shit isn’t always a Lifetime movie or a fucking DSM diagnosis, why can’t you fucking understand that? We suck. Our parents suck. We all suck, and it’s our own goddamned faults.”

The ensuing silence crashes into the room like a tsunami. After what feels like hours of vacuum, Roxy hiccups. She has been quietly sobbing.

Dave looks at all of you in turn and grimaces.

“Shit.”

He grabs his phone from off the table and makes for the door. No one moves to stop him. He opens the door and turns back.

“Thanks for dinner, Kan. Sorry.”

And then he is gone.

You start clearing plates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo, how's it going, everyone? Long time, no talk. Stick around for the stunning conclusion, maybe.


End file.
